“Satan’s which?”
“Died of the smallpox.”
“Well, I’m d—d!” said Sellers, casting his eyes over the Sarah and then resting them on Ratcliffe. “When was it?”
“A week ago.”
Sellers gave a word to the bow oar and the boat pushed off a bit, the fellows hanging on their oars.
“I thought I saw three of you on deck,” he shouted.
“The other chap’s gone below,” replied Jude.
The boat of the Juan hung for a moment as if in meditation. She made a striking picture, the blue water paling to green under her and the sun-blaze on the red topknots of the oarsmen.
Then without a word more she turned back to the Juan.
Satan in the scupper seemed preparing to have a fit.