“You’ll find out soon enough when you go on deck. Hungry? I got orders to feed ye.”
“You bet I’m hungry; didn’t have any dinner last night in St. Pierre.”
“Two nights ago,” said the other, beginning to fry salt pork. “Nigh thirty-six hours you’ve laid here like a log.” Code doubted it, but did not argue. He was trying to puzzle out the situation.
If this was a fishing schooner the men ought to be over the side fishing, and she would be at anchor. Instead, feeling the long, steady heel to leeward and half-recover to windward, he knew she was flying on a course.
Breakfast swallowed, he made his way on deck. As he came up the companionway a man stood leaning against the rail. With a feeling of violent revulsion, Code recognized Nat Burns. A glance at a near-by dory showed the lettering Nettie B., and Schofield at once recognized his position.
He was Nat Burns’s prisoner.
“Mornin’,” said Burns curtly. “Thought you were goin’ to sleep forever.”
“It’s a hanging offense putting any one to sleep that long,” retorted Code cheerfully. “Luck was with you, and I woke up.”
“You’re hardly in a position to joke about hanging offenses,” remarked Nat venomously.