Buckland shot a furtive glance round the deck before he spoke next. It was pitiful to see the first lieutenant of a ship of the line taking precautions lest what he should say should be overheard. But Hornblower and Wellard were on the other side of the wheel. On the poop the master was assembling the midshipmen’s navigation class with their sextants to take their noon sights.
“He’s mad,” said Buckland in as low a voice as the northeast trade wind would allow.
“We all know that,” said Roberts.
Bush said nodding. He was too cautious to commit himself at present.
“Clive won’t lift a finger,” said Buckland. “He’s a ninny if there ever was one.”
Clive was the surgeon.
“Have you asked him?” asked Roberts.
“I tried to. But he wouldn’t say a word. He’s afraid.”
“Don’t move from where you are standing, gentlemen,” broke in a loud harsh voice; the wellremembered voice of the captain, speaking apparently from the level of the deck on which they stood. All three officers started in surprise.
“Every sign of guilt,” blared the voice. “Bear witness to it, Mr. Hobbs.”