A PORTION OF THE TRUTH
Joe was not in the least changed. Wherever he had been, in whatever nefarious transactions he had been engaged, he was still the mahogany-colored, tough old sailor whom nothing could surprise or alarm. After having greeted Lestrange he hitched up his trousers in true nautical style and touched his forehead.
"You wished to see me, sir," he said to Alan, and took a sidelong glance at the Captain. That polished scoundrel had, for once, lost his coolness, and, colorless with rage, was glaring at the seaman like a devil.
"Joe," said the squire, as soon as he could take in the situation, "you are making a mistake."
"Not me, sir! I knows a shark when I sees one."
"But this is Captain Achille Lestrange."
"Curse me if he is!" cried Joe vigorously. "Achille weren't no captain. This one's a captain right enough, and a blazing fine lobster he is! Jean's his name, sir, but he ain't a Scotch girl, for all that. No, it's the French lingo for John."
"I am Achille Lestrange," persisted the Captain, very shrill and very short of breath. "This man is a liar!"
"Say that again, and I'll knock the teeth down your throat!" growled Joe, like an angry mastiff. "Achille be blowed! I know'd you twenty year ago in the islands, I did, and a bad lot you were then. Jean Lestrange--why, there never was a wuss lot! I never did think much of Achille, for all his money; but you----"
Joe spat to show his disgust.