The lieutenant made no reply for a minute or two, being, like his two young companions, eagerly scanning the rather slovenly deck and the faces of the small crew, who were looking at their invaders apparently with wonder.
“Never mind what we took you for,” said the lieutenant sharply, and in a tone of voice which to Murray suggested doubt. “Answer me at once. What schooner’s this?”
“Don’t be waxy, sir,” said the skipper, smiling good-humouredly. “That’s reg’lar English fashion—knock a fellow over, and then say, Where are you shoving to! What’s yours?”
“H.M.S. Seafowl,” said the lieutenant haughtily. “Now then, will you answer?”
“Of course I will, Mr Lieutenant. This here is the schooner Laura Lee, of Bristol. Trading in sundries, machinery and oddments, loaded out at Kingston, Jamaica, and now for the West Coast to take in palm oil. Afterwards homeward bound. How does that suit you?”
Roberts and Murray exchanged glances, and then noted that the men were doing the same.
“Your papers, sir,” said the lieutenant.
“Papers?” said the skipper. “All right, sir; but you might put it a little more civil.”
“I am doing my duty, sir,” said the lieutenant sternly.
“All right, sir, all right; but don’t snap a man’s head off. You shall see my papers. They’re all square. Like to take anything? I’ve got a fine bottle or two of real Jamaica below.”