Will Martyn came on deck.
“This is the captain,” Miller said. “You had better address him.”
On hearing what was required Martyn took the officer below and showed him the ship’s papers.
“I see it is mentioned here that you were bound from England to Lisbon,” the officer observed.
“Yes. We did not put in there, as Mr. Beveridge was anxious to get into a warmer climate.”
“I see you are strongly armed,” the officer said when he came on to deck again, for after leaving Malta the eight twelve-pounders and the pivot-gun had been got up from the hold and mounted.
“Yes, we are armed, as you see. I imagine you would hardly recommend anyone to be cruising about in these waters without means of defence.”
“No, indeed,” the officer laughed. “The Greeks are pirates to the core. You would be all right with the Turks, although from your appearance I should not think they would ever get near enough to trouble you.”
Half an hour later Mr. Beveridge and Horace were rowed ashore. As, except at Ceuta, Horace had never set foot ashore out of England, he was much amused and interested by the varied population. Mingled with the native population of the island were Greeks from the mainland; Albanians in their white pleated petticoats, bristling with arms mounted in gold and silver; a few English soldiers walking about as unconcernedly as if in a garrison town at home; and sailors of several nationalities from ships in harbour.
“I should think, father, the proper thing would be to call upon the English officer in command here and invite him to dinner. We shall get a general idea of the state of things from him.”