“None on it, sir,” said the rough old sailor, pulling his forelock.
“That’s strange,” said the captain. “When did you see him, Parkley?”
“Last night, and he said he would be aboard in the morning, and glad of it, for he was sick of England.”
“Twelve o’clock now,” said the captain. “Well, the tide serves; I must give the word for getting out of dock. He must have a longer row for being late. He’s sure to come, of course.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr Parkley; but he glanced uneasily at Dutch, as if he did not feel sure.
“Ready there,” cried the captain. “Now, my lads, be handy—cast off those ropes for’ard. Oh, here he is. Hold hard there.”
“But where’s his luggage?” said Mr Parkley.
“Oh, behind the crowd,” said the captain. “Come along, sir, we were going without you.”
“Indeed!” said the Cuban, with a smile. “I doubt that. Where would you go?”
“Where Mr Parkley told me,” said the captain. “Give me the order. I’ll find the place. Let’s see, Mr Pugh, we are to send you back in the tug, I suppose.”