“Who are yer?” he inquired suspiciously, “an’ how’d yer get ’ere?”
I was anxious to play my part so as not to arouse his suspicion, hence I did not reply for at least a minute, but continued to pant, gasp, and cough, until my breath might reasonably be supposed to have returned, and then I said faintly, “Help me to get on board and I’ll tell you.”
“You can’t coom aboord,” he answered surlily. “No one ain’t allowed aboord these ships.”
“I must,” I said, with as much appearance of resolution as was consistent with the half-drowned condition which I had assumed.
“Must yer?” he said. “We’ll —— soon see about that,” and then for the second time he put the question, “Who are yer, and ’ow’d yer get out ’ere?”
I replied, in sentences suitably abbreviated to telegraphic terseness, that my name was Max Rissler. Was a friend of Mr. Hardy Muir. Was staying at Canvey for shooting. Had thought would like a swim. Had got on all right till I had tried to turn, and then had found current too strong. Had become exhausted, and must have been drowned if had not fortunately been carried past hulk.
Hughes evidently considered the explanation satisfactory, for his next question was not about myself but about my intentions.
“And what are you going to do now?”
“Come on board,” I answered promptly.
“Yer can’t do that,” he said. “No one ain’t allowed aboord these —— boats.”