"I beg pardon, stranger," he said, "but are you Captain Chowder?"
"I'm Skipper Cawdor, of the barque San Salvador."
"The very individual. I thought it was Chowder. Well, Captain Chaw—Chow—I mean Cawdor, are you open to take a commission?"
"Sit down, sir. Have a glass of port. Your name?"
"Deakin, of Deakin and Co. We're shipowners, oil-merchants, anything."
"Well, I'm open to load up and go anywhere."
"When can you start?"
"In half an hour after the last bale's on board."
"But it ain't bales, captain. Fact is, a whaler of ours, the brig Resolute, that touched here eight months ago, and ought to have returned long since, is lost, and we've just got word from a vessel that has come from Kerguelen that in all likelihood the crew are saved, and living or existing on an island a long distance to the east and south of that black starvation rock."
"Yes, I see. Well, sir?"