Michael nodded.
“Aye, aye, sir, I understand you,” he said. “Then she doesn’t know the truth about her father?” Dyck sighed heavily. “No, Michael, she doesn’t know the truth.”
“I don’t believe it would make any difference to her if she did know.”
“It would make all the difference to me, Michael. She says she wishes to help me. She tells me that money’s been sent to the big firm in Dublin-money to take me across the sea to Virginia.”
Michael’s face clouded.
“Yes, sir. To Virginia—and what then?”
“Michael, we haven’t a penny in the world, you and I, but if I took one farthing of that money I should hope you would kill me. I’m hungry; we’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday; but if I could put my hands upon that money here and now I wouldn’t touch it. Michael, it looks as if we shall have to take to the trade of the footpad.”
CHAPTER XII. THE HOUR BEFORE THE MUTINY
In the days when Dyck Calhoun was on the verge of starvation in London, evil naval rumours were abroad. Newspapers reported, one with apprehension, another with tyrannous comment, mutinous troubles in the fleet.