“No,” said Hornblower. “But I met Mr. Wilson.”
Truelove and Wilson were names familiar to Bush; they were the most famous prize agents in England—a quarter of the navy at least employed that firm to dispose of their captures for them. The Marquis turned back to Bush.
“I hope you have been fortunate in the matter of prize money, Mr. Bush?” he said.
“No such luck,” said Bush. His hundred pounds had gone in a two days’ debauch at Kingston.
“The sums they handle are fabulous, nothing less than fabulous. I understand the ship’s company of the Caradoc will share seventy thousand pounds when they come in.”
“Very likely,” said Bush. He had heard of the captures the Caradoc had made in the Bay of Biscay.
“But while this wind persists they must wait before enjoying their good fortune, poor fellows. They were not paid off on the conclusion of peace, but were ordered to Malta to assist in relieving the garrison. Now they are expected back daily.”
For an immigrant civilian the Marquis displayed a laudable interest in the affairs of the service. And he was consistently polite, as his next speech showed.
“I trust you will consider yourself at home here, Mr. Bush,” he said. “Now I hope you will pardon me, as I have much business to attend to.”
He withdrew through the curtained door, leaving Bush and Hornblower looking at each other.