“The names, sir!” cried the captain, as once more there was the sound of a deep breath.
“Couldn’t give yer one of ’em, sir, unless it was Tom Fillot.”
“Hah! Stand out, sir.”
“Why, I was taking my trick at the wheel, your honour,” cried Tom Fillot, in tones of protest.
“So you was, messmet,” growled Dance; “so you was. There, your honour,” he continued, turning to the captain, “you see how dark it were.”
“Try again, sir,” said the captain, sternly.
“Dick Bannock,” said Dance.
“Which I were o’ dooty in my watch, mate,” cried the man.
“Ay, so you was, messmet. No, your honour, it were too dark. P’r’aps,” he added, cunningly, “one o’ the blacks knows.”
Here there was a murmur.