MacBride related the story and Ortho laughed with great heartiness.
“Good yarn, ain’t it?” said the captain.
Ortho vowed it was the best he had ever heard.
“Of course you knowing old Jerry would appreciate it—these others—!” The captain made the gesture of one whose pearls of reminiscence have been cast before swine.
Ortho took his courage in both hands and told a story of how Captain Gish had got hold of a gypsy’s bear, dressed it up in a skirt, cloak and bonnet and let it loose in the Quakers’ meeting house in Penzance. As a matter of fact, it was not the inimitable Jerry who had done it at all, but a party of young squires; however, it served Ortho’s purpose to credit the exploit to Captain Gish. Captain Gish, as Ortho remembered him, was a dull old gentleman with theories of his own on the lost tribes of Israel which he was never tired of disclosing, but the Jerry Gish that MacBride remembered and delighted in was evidently a very different person—a spark, a blood, a devil of a fellow. Jeremiah must be maintained in the latter rôle at all costs. Ever since his visit to the cabin Ortho had been thinking of all boisterous jests he had ever heard and tailoring them to fit Jerry against such a chance as this. His repertoire was now extensive.
The captain laughed most heartily at the episode of “good old Jerry” and the bear. Ortho knew how to tell a story; he had caught the trick from Pyramus. Encouraged, he was on the point of relating another when there came a long-drawn cry from aloft. The effect on the Arab crew was magical.
“Moghreb!” they cried. “Moghreb!” and, dropping whatever they had in hand, raced for the main ratlines. Captain MacBride, however, was before them. He kicked one chocolate mariner in the stomach, planted his fist in the face of another, whacked yet another over the knuckles with his telescope, hoisted himself to the fife rail, and from that eminence distributed scalding admonitions to all and sundry. That done, he went hand over fist in a dignified manner up to the topgallant yard.
The prisoners were sent below, but to the tween-decks this time instead of the hold.
Land was in sight, the Brixham man informed Ortho. They had hit the mark off very neatly, at a town called Mehdia a few miles above Sallee, or so he understood. If they could catch the tide they should be in by evening. The admiral was lacing bonnets on. The gun ports being closed, they could not see how they were progressing, but the Arabs were in a high state of elation; cheer after cheer rang out from overhead as they picked up familiar land-marks along the coast. Even the wounded men dragged themselves to the upper deck. The afternoon drew on. Puddicombe was of the opinion that they would miss the tide and anchor outside, in which case they were in for another night’s pitching and rolling. Ortho devoutly trusted not; what with the vermin and rats in that hold he was nearly eaten alive. He was just beginning to give up hope when there came a sudden bark of orders from above, the scamper of bare feet, the chant of men hauling on braces and the creak of yards as they came over.
“She’s come up,” said he of Brixham. “They’re stowing the square sails and going in under lateens. Whoop, there she goes! Over the bar!”