Rodd’s uncle bowed, and turned away, frowning.
“Stop, sir!” cried the officer sharply.
“What insolence, uncle!” said Rodd aloud; and he turned away from the midshipman, to cross to his uncle’s side.
“What’s that?” shouted the lieutenant, and the middy clapped his hand to the hilt of his dirk.
“I said what insolence, sir. My uncle is a gentleman.”
“And it seems that his nephew is not. Be silent, boy, and recollect in whose presence you stand. I am a King’s officer.—Now, Mr—what is your name? Robson? Have the goodness to tell me how it is that, with a light, fast-sailing schooner, well-armed, and with a crew evidently fighting men, you are found here in the neighbourhood of one of the notorious slave-supplying rivers? You may just as well speak the truth, for in all probability your schooner will be a prize to his Majesty’s sloop of war Diadem.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor quietly. “Suspicious appearances can always be found by those who seek for them. If you will have the goodness to step below with the captain you can examine the papers and the scientific fittings of portions of the hold which were prepared under my instructions when I started upon the voyage. I don’t think, sir, you will find any accommodation has been made for the reception of a black living cargo of those poor unfortunate objects of humanity in whom a certain vile nefarious traffic is carried on. Captain Chubb, pray take this gentleman below and show him everything he desires.”
“Oh,” said the lieutenant sharply, “if this is so, Mr Rodson—”
“Dr Robson, at your service,” said the owner of the name, glancing sharply at his nephew, with a faint smile upon his lips, for at the utterance by the lieutenant of the syllable Rod the boy had started violently.
As the doctor spoke he took out his pocket-book, drew forth a card, and held it between two fingers in doctor’s fashion towards the officer.