“The Josefa, slave schooner. Is that Mr Armitage?”
“Ay, ay, it is. Who may you be, pray?”
I had by this time gone aft and was standing by Smellie’s side. The schooner was just jibing over and darting along on the Daphne’s starboard side.
“Armitage evidently has not recognised my voice as yet,” remarked Smellie, “or else,” he added, “they have given us up on board as dead, and he is unable so suddenly to realise the fact of our being still alive.”
Then, as we finally rounded-to under the Daphne’s quarter, Armitage reappeared aft, and the confab was renewed, Smellie this time taking the lead.
“Daphne ahoy!” he hailed, “has Captain Vernon yet retired for the night?”
“I think not,” was the reply. “What do you want?”
“Kindly pass the word to him that Mr Smellie and Mr Hawkesley are alongside in a captured slaver: and say we shall feel greatly obliged if he will send a prize crew on board us to take possession.”
“Ay, ay! I will.”
Armitage thereupon disappeared, and, we being at the time to leeward of the sloop, a slight but distinct commotion became perceptible on board her. Presently a figure appeared in the fore-rigging, and a deep, gruff, hoarse voice hailed: