“Oh! Well, what is it, Mr —. Why, Hawkesley, where in the world have you been, and what doing, man? You are positively smothered in tar.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, glancing at myself and discovering for the first time by the brilliant light of the cabin lamp the woeful ruin wrought upon my uniform. “I really beg your pardon, sir, for presenting myself in this plight, but the urgent nature of my business must be my excuse.” And I forthwith plunged in medias res and told what I had heard and seen.
“The noise of a scuffle and the brig adrift!” exclaimed the skipper. “The crew surely cannot have risen upon their officers and taken the ship!” the same idea promptly presenting itself to him as had occurred to the third lieutenant.
“No, sir,” said I. “I do not believe that is it at all; the commotion was not great enough or prolonged enough for that; all the officers would not be likely to be taken by surprise, but one man might be.”
“One man! What do you mean? I don’t understand you,” rapped out the skipper.
“Well, then, sir, to speak the whole of my mind plainly, I am greatly afraid that Mr Austin has met with foul play on board that brig, and that she is not a French man-o’-war at all, as she professes to be,” I exclaimed.
I saw Smellie start; and he was about to speak when:
“Mr Austin! Foul play! Not a French man-o’-war!!” gasped the skipper. “Why, Good Heavens! the boy is mad!”
“If I am, sir, I can only say that I have been so for the last four months,” I retorted. “For it is fully as long as that, or longer, that I have had my suspicions about that brig and her crew.”
“What!” exclaimed Smellie. “Have you, too, suspected the brig?”