The skipper answered directly in Spanish.
There was a quick interchange of words, and then the latter gave an order in English which came as a relief to Fitz and made his heart jump, suggesting as it did that the next minute there was going to be a fight.
“Get the lads all round you, Burgess, and be on the alert. It seems all right, but it may be a bit of Spanish treachery, so look out.”
As he was speaking Fitz with straining eyes and ear saw that the pale golden green water was being lifted from the surface of the sea and falling back like dull golden metal in patches, with an interval of darkness between them, the bestirred water looking like so much molten ore as it splashed about.
Then there was the scraping of a boat-hook against the side, close to the gangway, and the dimly-seen figure of a man scrambling on board.
No enemy certainly, for Fitz made out that the newcomer grasped both the captain’s hands in his, and began talking to him in a low eager excited tone, the captain’s responses, given in the man’s own tongue, sounding short and sharp, interspersed too with an angry ejaculation or two. The conversation only lasted about five minutes, and then the visitor turned back to the side, uttered an order in a low tone which caused a little stir in the boat below, and stepped down. Fitz could hear him crossing the thwarts to the stern, and the craft was pushed off. Then the golden splashes in the sea came regularly once more, to grow fainter and fainter, in the direction of the city lights; and then they were alone in the silence and darkness of the night.
It was not Fitz’s fault that he heard what followed, for the skipper came close up to where he was standing with Poole, followed by the mate, who had sent the men forward as soon as the boat was gone.
“Well,” said the skipper, “it’s very unfortunate.”
“Is it?” said the mate gruffly.
“Yes. Couldn’t you hear?”