“No, sir.”
“What does your brother do?”
“Works on a farm, sir.”
“Hum, yes, thought as much; couple of nets and an old boat stopped up with tar—huh! Never mind, you’re healthy; you’ll sell.”
He said something in Arabic to the old Moor, who wagged his flowing beard and went on with his beads.
“You can go!” said the captain, motioning to the guide; then as Ortho neared the door he called out, “Avast a minute!” Ortho turned about.
“You say you come from near Penzance. Well, did you run athwart a person by the name of Gish by any chance? Captain Jeremiah Gish? He was a Penzance man, I remember. Made a mint o’ money shipping ‘black-birds’ to the Plate River and retired home to Penzance, or so I’ve heard. Gish is the name, Jerry Gish.”
Ortho gaped. Gish—Captain Jerry—he should think he did know him. He had been one of Teresa’s most ardent suitors at one time, and still hung after her, admired her gift of vituperation; had been in the Star Inn that night he had robbed her of the hundred pounds. Captain Jerry! They were always meeting at races and such-like; had made several disastrous bets with him. Old Jerry Gish! It sounded strange to hear that familiar name here among all these wild infidels, gave him an acute twinge of homesickness.
“Well,” said the corsair captain, “never heard of him, I suppose?”
Ortho recovered himself. “Indeed, sir, I know him very well.”