“I’m glad to see you, sir,” exclaimed Runkle, who bore the device of a boatswain’s mate. “I thought you were in these waters, sir.”
“And I wish I had you on my ship, Runkle,” Dave went on, earnestly.
“Begging your pardon, sir, I see that you have Hartmann a prisoner.”
“Who?”
“Hartmann.”
“Do you mean the sailor under guard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You call him Hartmann?”
“Yes, sir—Gus Hartmann—old Jake Hartmann’s son. I ought to know him. We hail from the same home town.”
“Speak to him,” murmured Dave, then turned to the prisoner with: