“Your mate!” exclaimed the stranger. “Oh, I know him—know him well. It’s Jack a—Jack a——”
“No, it isn’t Jack; it’s Dick Flint.”
“Why, so it is. How stupid in me to forget his name! I saw him with you yesterday, come to think. Let me see,” added the stranger, placing his finger on his forehead and looking down at the ground in a brown study; “didn’t I ship him last night on board the Santa Maria? Of course I did.”
“Of course you didn’t. He don’t ship on no such vessel, and neither do I. She’s got a crew aboard of her who don’t sign articles,” said Guy glibly, making use of some expressions he had heard at the boarding-house. “I don’t want to ship with ghosts. I have seen too many of them in my time.”
“Have you, though?” said the stranger. “I knew you were an old salt as soon as I put my eyes on you.”
“Yes,” said Guy, pushing his tarpaulin on one side of his head, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets, and making a motion with his tongue as if he were turning a quid of tobacco in his mouth. “The last voyage I made was in a ship bound around the Cape. When the time came we began to get ready for bad weather by sending down the royal-yards and masts, and taking in the flying jib-boom. One of the hands—my chum he was, too, and the best fellow and finest sailor that ever chewed biscuit—was out on the boom, and had just sung out ‘haul in!’ when a big sea broke over the vessel, and that was the last we ever saw of him—that is, alive. But every night after that when the mid-watch was called, and the order was given to haul in the flying jib-boom, we were sure to find that fellow out there before us, working like a trooper. No, sir, I don’t ship in any more vessels that carry ghosts, if I know it.”
Guy pushed his hat further on the side of his head, turned his back partly to the stranger and looked as wise as possible, thinking no doubt that he had made an impression on his auditor. He did not know that he had got his narrative somewhat mixed up, but that the stranger did was evident. There was a roguish twinkle in his eye, and he was obliged to bite his lips to keep from laughing outright. Controlling himself with an effort he leaned toward Guy and said, in a low, confidential tone:
“I don’t blame you. The Santa Maria does bear a hard name, that’s a fact, and I wouldn’t sail in her myself. I’ve got another vessel on my books—the clipper Morning Light, bound up the Mediterranean, and I know that’s the very place you want to go. Isn’t it now, say?” he exclaimed, hitting the boy a back-handed slap on the chest.
“Yes,” answered Guy. “I should like to go.”
“Of course you would. Everybody wants to go, but only a few can get the chance. I tell you it takes influence to get a berth on board a Mediterranean trader,” said the man, who knew that he could impose upon Guy to his heart’s content. “Wealthy country that, and if you don’t come back rich, it will be your own fault. Ostrich feathers are plenty and worth a hundred dollars a pound on this side of the Atlantic. Diamonds, pearls, nuggets, and gold-dust, are to be had for the picking up. Everybody fills his pockets, from the captain down to Jemmy Ducks. Come and put down your name. Where’s your dunnage?”