“Yes,” said the lad, looking round. “Clouds are gathering in the west, and we are going to have a grand show of such colours as I never saw anywhere else. Come on up, there’s a good chap.”
Fitz remained silent, and the skipper’s son winked to himself.
“Where’s Mr Burgess now?” said Fitz at last.
“He’s in his cabin, writing home to his wife. You would never think how particular such a gruff old fellow as he is about writing home. Writes a long letter every week as regular as clockwork. Doesn’t seem like a pirate, does it?”
“Is your father on deck?”
“No. He’s in his cabin, busy over the chart. We are getting pretty close to the port now.”
“Ah!” cried Fitz eagerly. “What port are we making for?”
“San Cristobal.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the Armado Republic, Central America.”