Niven seemed a trifle astonished. "That's here," he said. "Do they do things the same way everywhere?"
There was a little grim laughter, and Montreal pointed towards the west. "No, sir," he said. "When you go where the Russian seals live there's no use for talking of any kind, because you can't understand each other, and you use the clubs. There's men I know have seen other things come in quite handy too. Now old man Harper of the Golden Horn——"
Donegal stopped him. "'Tis talking too much ye are, and, as everybody knows, Ned Jordan is a quiet man," he said. "'Tis curious tales Mainsail Haul will be telling the earl about us when he goes home."
"Let up!" said Niven. "I'm a sealer now, and I only want to know if any one tried to arrest the skipper wrongfully, what would he do?"
Donegal's eyes twinkled. "He would run away like a sensible man, or hide in the fog," he said.
"But if he couldn't, or there wasn't any fog?"
Donegal shook his head. "'Tis persistent ye are," he said. "Peace is a thing Ned Jordan's fond of, but if folks will not let him have it his fist is as big as most."
Nobody said anything further, but there was a curious little smile in the men's bronzed faces, and while Appleby endeavoured to kick his comrade in warning that it would not be desirable to ask any more questions there was a crash above.
"There," said Donegal, grabbing Brulée's shoulder. "'Tis your galley tore up by the roots."
"No," said Stickine. "I figure it's the water tank got adrift. We want a lashing on her before she goes right out through the bulwarks, boys."