“True,” said the lieutenant; “you are right.”
“Somewhere about,” said the man, showing his teeth. “There, you slip off and fetch your ship, and I’ll cruise up and down off the mouth of the river here so as to make sure that the schooner don’t slip off. She’s just as like as not to hyste sail now that the fog’s all gone. She’d have been off before if it hadn’t come on as thick as soup. Say, ’bout how far off is your ship?”
“Half-a-dozen miles away,” said the lieutenant.
“That ain’t far. Why not be off at once?”
“Why not come with us?” asked Murray.
“Ain’t I telled yer, youngster? Think I want to come back and find the schooner gone?”
The lieutenant gazed from the American to the midshipman and back again, with his doubts here and there, veering like a weather vane, for the thought would keep attacking him—suppose all this about the slave schooner was Yankee bunkum, and as soon as he had got rid of them, the lugger would sail away and be seen no more?
“You won’t trust him, will you?” said Murray, taking advantage of a puff of wind which separated the two boats for a few minutes.
“I can’t,” said the lieutenant, in a whisper. “I was nearly placing confidence in him, but your doubt has steered me in the other direction. Hah!” he added quickly. “That will prove him.” And just then the lugger glided alongside again, and the opportunity for further communing between the two officers was gone.
“That’s what yew have to be on the lookout for, mister, when yew get sailing out here. Sharp cat’s-paws o’ wind hot as fire sometimes. Well, ain’t you going to fetch your ship?”