“She’s a private yacht—the Banner—and belongs in Bellville, Louisiana,” was the answer. “Me and my mates here are the crew. We are hired by the year, and all we have to do is to take a half a dozen young gentlemen wherever they want to go.”
“You have papers, of course?”
“Yes. The captain keeps them in that desk in the cabin.”
The stranger directed his gaze down the companion-way, and after taking a good look at the little writing-desk Tomlinson pointed out to him, asked, as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the two boys on the forecastle:
“Who are those fellows? I think I have seen them somewhere.”
“Their names are Chase and Wilson, and they are a couple of green hands who came out with us. The cap’n and steward have gone ashore to get some grub. We’ve been knocked about on the Gulf for the last five days, and we’ve made way with the last mouthful of salt horse and hard tack. We haven’t had any breakfast yet.”
“You haven’t!” exclaimed the sailor. “Then come with me. I am mate of the schooner Stella, which lies a little way below here. I’ll give you a good breakfast and a pipe to smoke after it.”
Tomlinson and his friends were much too hungry to decline an invitation of this kind. Without saying a word they followed the mate on board the brig, thence to the wharf, and in a few minutes found themselves on board the Stella. After conducting them into the forecastle, their guide made his way across the deck and down the companion-ladder into the cabin, where he found Mr. Bell pacing to and fro.
“Well,” said the latter, pausing in his walk, “waste no time in words now. Have you succeeded?”
“Not yet, sir,” replied the mate. “I found more men there than I expected to find—four sailors, who say they are the hired crew of the yacht, but I know they are deserters from Uncle Sam’s revenue service. How they came on board the Banner, I did not stop to inquire. They told me they had eaten no breakfast, and I brought them up here. We can easily keep them out of the way until the work is done.”