"Who?" echoed the sailor. "Why, who but Mr. Jack Harkaway? He's well known enough. Surely you don't mean for to go for to say as you never heard of him?"
"I—I think I have heard the name," muttered Hunston.
"Think! Well, so do I, unless you've been shut up in solitary confinement for the last fifteen years. Blow me tight, but the man that hadn't heard of Mr. Jack Harkaway, would be a living curiosity."
"Jack Harkaway the owner of this ship!" Hunston murmured, like one in a dream, and relapsed into silence once more.
No wonder that he had seen that vision.
No wonder that the spirit of the murdered boy, young Jack, should hover about the vessel where his destroyer was hiding—in which his father, mother, and all that he held dear in life were journeying.
The situation grew graver than ever.
It was truly an alarming plight, and the more he thought it over, the more desperate did he become.
"Jack Tiller," said he.
"Your honour."