“It’s all right, sir,” whispered the man, breathless, in part from his exertions, and partly also, Leslie believed, from apprehension; “it’s all right. But let go, sir, please, and let’s get a few fathoms away from the ship, for there’s no knowin’ when that skunk Turnbull may take it into his head to come on deck and ’ave a look round; ’e’s as nervous as a cat, and that suspicious that you can’t be up to ’im. There, thank ’e, sir; I dare say that’ll do; they won’t be able to see or ’ear us from where we are now, for I couldn’t see you until you was close under the counter. Well, you’ve come, sir, God be thanked; and I ’ope you’ll be able to ’elp us; because if you can’t it’ll be a precious bad job for some of us.” And the fellow sighed heavily with mingled apprehension and relief.
“You had better tell me the whole of your story,” said Leslie, quietly. “I shall then be in a position to say whether I can help you or not. If I can, you may rest assured that I will.”
“Thank ’e, sir,” murmured the man. “Well, ye see, sir, it’s like this. We sailed from London for Capetown a little more than four months ago; and everything went smooth and comfortable enough with us until we got across the line and into the south-east trades—for the skipper, poor Cap’n Hopkins, was as nice and pleasant a man as anybody need wish to sail under; and so was Mr Marshall, too—that’s the mate, you’ll understand, sir—although ’e kep’ the men up to their dooty, and wouldn’t ’ave no skulkin’ aboard. The only chap as was anyways disagreeable was this feller Turnbull, who was rated as bo’sun, and give charge of the starboard watch, actin’ as a sort of second mate, ye see. Well, as I was sayin’, everything went all right until we got to the s’uth’ard of the line. Then, one night I was woke up some time after midnight by a terrific row in the cabin; and up I jumps and out I goes to see what was up. When I got into the cabin it seemed full of men; but I’d no sooner shown my nose than one of the chaps—it was Pete Burton, I remember—catches sight of me, and, takin’ me by the collar, ’e runs me back into my cabin and says, ‘You stay in there, Jim,’—my name’s Reynolds—Jim Reynolds—you’ll understand, sir. ‘You stay in there, Jim,’ ’e says, ‘and no ’arm’ll come to you; but if you tries to come out afore you’re called, you’ll get ’urt,’ ’e says. Then ’e turns the key upon me, and I gets back into my bunk, and listens. The next thing I ’eard was a pistol-shot; then there was another tremenjous ’ullabaloo, men shoutin’ and strugglin’ together, followed by a suddent silence, and the sound of all ’ands clearin’ out of the cabin. Then there was a lot of tramplin’ of feet on the poop over my ’ead, with a good deal of talkin’; then I ’eard somebody cry out, there was a ’eavy splash in the water alongside, and then everything went quite quiet all of a sudden, and I ’eard no more until mornin’. But I guessed pretty well what ’ad ’appened; and when Turnbull come along about five bells and unlocked my door and ordered me to turn out and get about my work, I found I was right, for when I went for’ard to the galley, Slushy—that’s the cook, otherwise known as Neil Dolan—told me that that skowbank Turnbull, backed up by the four A.B.s in the fo’c’s’le and Slushy ’isself, ’ad rose and took the ship from the skipper, killin’ ’im and Chips—that’s the carpenter—puttin’ the mate in irons and lockin’ ’im up in ’is cabin, and compellin’ the four ordinarys to help—whether they would or no—in workin’ the ship. Then, by-and-by, when eight bells struck and I rang the bell for breakfast, along comes Turnbull, and says to me—
“‘Well, Jim, I s’pose you’ve ’eard the news?’
“‘Yes, bo’sun,’ I says, ‘I ’ave.’
“‘Very well,’ he says; ‘that’s all right. Now,’ ’e says, ‘all as you ’ave to do, my son, is to behave yourself and do your dooty, takin’ care not to interfere with my arrangements. You’ll give the mate ’is meals in ’is own cabin, regular; but you’re not to talk to ’im, you understand, nor tell ’im anything that you may see or ’ear about what’s goin’ on. And don’t you call me bo’sun no more, young man, or I’ll knock your bloomin’ young ’ead off, for I’m cap’n of this ship now, and don’t you forget it! So now you knows what to expect. And, mind you,’ ’e says, ‘if you gets up to any ’ankypanky tricks I’ll chuck you over the side, so sure as your name’s Jim Reynolds, so keep your weather eye liftin’, my son!’
“Later on, that same day, Turnbull ’as the mate out into the main cabin and spreads a chart of the Pacific Hocean out on the table; and, readin’ from a paper what ’e ’ad in ’is ’and, says, ‘Now, Mr Marshall, I’ll trouble you to lay down on this ’ere chart a p’int bearin’ latitood so-and-so and longitood so-and-so,’—I forgets what the figures was. ‘And when you’ve done that,’ he says, ‘you’ll navigate this ’ere barque to that identical spot. I’ll give yer two months from to-day to get us there,’ ’e says; ‘and if we’re not there by that time,’ ’e says, ‘I’ll lash your ’ands and feet together be’ind yer back and ’eave yer overboard. So now you knows what you’ve to do if you want to save yer bloomin’ life,’ ’e says.
“That same a’ternoon, while I was for’ard in the galley, Slushy—who was in ’igh spirits—tells me as ’ow Turnbull ’ave got ’old of a yarn about a lot of buried treasure on a hisland somewhere, in the Pacific, and that we was bound there to get it; and that when we’d got it, Turnbull and them as ’ad stood in with ’im ’d be as rich as princes and wouldn’t need to do another stroke of work for the rest of their naturals, but just ’ave a good time, with as much booze as they cared to swaller. And I reckon that this ’ere’s the hisland where Turnbull thinks ’e’ll find ’is treasure.”
“No doubt,” agreed Leslie. “Well, what do you want me to do?”
“Well, sir, it ain’t for the likes of me to say just exactly what you ought to do,” answered Reynolds. “I thought that maybe if I spinned you the whole yarn you’d be able to think out some way of ’elpin’ of us. There ain’t no doubt in my mind but what you bein’ on the hisland ’ave upset Turnbull’s calculations altogether. As I makes it out, ’e reckoned upon comin’ ’ere and goin’ ashore with ’is paper in ’is ’and, and walkin’ pretty straight to the place where this ’ere treasure is buried, and diggin’ of it up all quite comfortable, with nobody to hinterfere with ’im. But you bein’ ’ere makes it okkard for ’im, you see; because ’e’s afraid that where ’e goes you’ll go with ’im, and if ’e goes pokin’ about lookin’ after buried treasure you’ll drop on to ’is secret and p’rhaps get ’old of the stuff. And that’s just where the danger to you comes in; because, d’ye see, sir, if ’e’d kill one man for the sake of gettin’ ’old of the barque to come ’ere on the off-chance of findin’ the treasure, ’e ain’t the kind of man to ’esitate about killin’ another who’d be likely to hinterfere with ’im.”