Just then there was a movement in one of the bunks below, and presently a head appeared at the foot of the ladder. Another of the sailors had slept off the effects of the drug, and was coming up to see where he was. He was a man considerably older than Flint, and his hair and whiskers were as white as snow.
Guy’s heart bled for him. That a man at his time of life should be treated worse than a brute, and be obliged to submit to it too, it was——Guy’s indignation got the better of him, and he could only wish that he could be the master of the vessel for an hour or two. Wouldn’t he straighten out things in a hurry?
The old sailor came slowly up the ladder, taking no notice of Guy and his friend, and swept his eyes over the deck. No sooner had he done so than he started as if he had seen something frightful, took another good look, and his face turned ghastly pale.
“What ship is this?” he asked, backing down the ladder a step or two.
“The clipper Morning Light, bound up the Mediterranean,” replied Guy.
“Morning Light be blessed!” said the old sailor. “I know her. She’s the Santa Maria.”
Guy’s under jaw dropped, and the swab fell from his hand. His worst fears were confirmed.
He did not have time to digest this most unwelcome piece of news; for the second mate, thinking that he was devoting considerable time and attention to swabbing that particular part of the deck—for he had kept steadily at work during his conversation with Flint—came forward to see about it. He might have said or done something not altogether pleasant to Guy’s feelings, had he not been diverted from his object by the discovery of the two sailors on the ladder.
“Well, my hearties, you have slept it off at last, have you?” he exclaimed. “Then tumble up and turn to.”
Flint and the gray-headed sailor promptly obeyed the order, while the mate went into the forecastle to renew his efforts to arouse the sleepers.