“At your time,” said Uncle Paul promptly.
“Say nine?” asked the captain.
“Certainly; nine o’clock to-morrow morning,” replied Uncle Paul.
“Good. I will be off the landing-place at the Barbican with a boat. Night, sir. Night, youngster. Natural history expedition, eh? And I thought you was going blackbirding! Haw, haw, haw!”
This last was intended for a derisive laugh at himself, but it sounded like three grunts, each louder than the last.
The next minute the skipper was outside, and his steps were heard growing distant upon the gravel path.
“Well, what do you think of our captain, eh, Rodd?”
“I think he’s a rum ’un, uncle; but he isn’t our captain yet.”
“No, my boy, but if I have my way he will be, and if I hear that he’s a skilful navigator, for I want no further recommendation. The way in which he, an old experienced hand, one who would be able to see at a glance how thoroughly I should be at his mercy if he were a trickster whose aim was to make as much money out of the transaction as he could, proved that he was as honest as the day and ready to lay himself open to every examination, that alone without his display of honest indignation when he suspected me of being about to engage in that abominable traffic—there, I want no more. As these sea-going people say, Pickle, Captain Chubb is going to hoist his flag on board my schooner, for as far as I can judge at present he seems to be the man in whom we shall be able to trust.”