“What is the Vestale like?” was Smellie’s next question.
“Just as like the Black Venus as two peas in a pod,” was the reply, given with evident quiet amusement.
“And how was she painted?” persisted Smellie. “Ah, there now, stranger, you’ve puzzled me!” was the unexpected answer.
“Why? Did you not say you saw her?” queried Smellie sharply.
“No, I guess not; I didn’t say anything of the sort. I was ashore when her people boarded me. It was my mate that told me about it.”
“Your mate? Can we see him?” exclaimed Smellie eagerly.
“Yes, I reckon,” was the reply. “He’s ashore now; but you’ve only to pull about five miles up the creek, and I calculate you’ll find him somewheres.”
“Thanks!” answered Smellie. “I’m afraid we can’t spare the time for that. Can you tell me which of the two brigs—the Vestale or the Black Venus—sailed first from the river?”
“Wall, stranger, I’d like to help you all I could, I really would; but,” with his hand wandering thoughtfully over his forehead, “I really can’t for the life of me remember just now which of ’em it was.”
The fellow was lying; I could see it, and so could Smellie; but we could not, of course, tell him so; and we accordingly thanked him for his information and rose to go, with an uncomfortable feeling that we had received certain information, part of which was probably true whilst part was undoubtedly false, and that we were wholly without the means of distinguishing the one from the other.