“Let him stop there, the cranky, spit-firing varmint. But we sail after midday on the tide, and the question is where am I going to pick up a carpenter’s mate between now and then?”
“What’s your ship?” asked Daniel Sweetland.
“The Peabody, bound for the West Indies, and maybe South America after.”
“How long will you be away from England?”
“Can’t say to a month. Might be twelve weeks, might be twenty; but most like we shall be home by end of February.”
“I’ll come,” said Daniel. “I want a ship, an’ I want it quick.”
“D’you know your job?”
“Ess, fay; an’ what I don’t know I’ll larn afore we’m off the Eddystone light-house.”
“Come on then,” answered the other. “I’m in luck seemingly. You’re all right—eh? Ban’t running away from anybody?”