“Help yourself, old fellow. Really superb weeds these—wonder what was the name of the ship these were taken out of, eh?”
Then he seated himself upon the lockers, planted his elbows squarely on the table, rested his chin in the palms of his hands, and, in this by no means elegant attitude, puffed a long thin cloud of smoke at me. He intently watched the tiny wreath for a moment or two, and then broke ground by saying:
“Well, Lascelles, old boy, do you happen to know whereabouts we are?”
“Certainly,” I answered, in perfectly good faith; “we are now just about one hundred and twenty miles to the northward and westward of La Guayra.”
“Precisely. And we are—also—in—the—centre—of—a—hobble!” retorted the lively youth, nodding his head impressively at every word to give it additional emphasis. “In the centre of a hobble—that’s where you and I happen to be at the present moment,” he continued more soberly. “Let us look at the facts of the case. To start with, we are manifestly on board the wrong ship. The crew of that ship, or this ship—it is all the same in the present case—take us to be, not two unfortunate fugitive British midshipmen yearning to return to their duty, but two officers of the Spanish navy told off by that no doubt most respectable old gentleman—whose acquaintance I regret I have not yet had the honour of making—the captain-general, to execute a certain duty which we may perhaps make a rough guess at, but as to the precise nature of which we are at present without any definite information. Do you agree with me so far?”
“Yes,” said I. “But why can’t you discuss the matter seriously? It may prove serious enough for us both at any moment, Heaven knows!”
“True for you, O lovelorn youth with the solemn visage. But wherefore this emotion? Becoje tu heno mientras que el sol luciere is as sound a bit of wisdom as any that I have happened to pick up during our exceedingly pleasant sojourn at La Guayra. ‘Make hay whilst the sun shines!’—make the most of your opportunities—have all the fun you can during your enforced absence from the jurisdiction of the first luff—is a proverb which ought to command the most profound respect of every British midshipman; and I am surprised at you, Lascelles, and disappointed in you, that you so little endeavour to live up to it,” remarked Courtenay. “However,” he resumed, “there is a certain glimmering of truth in what you say; this hobble—I like the word ‘hobble,’ don’t you, so expressive, eh?—this hobble, then, in the centre of which we find ourselves, may prove a serious enough matter for us both at any moment, so let us go carefully over the ground and ascertain exactly how we stand. To start once more. I suppose you are prepared to accede to my proposition before stated, that we have by some unaccountable mistake blundered on board the wrong craft; and that on board her we have, in the same unaccountable way, established in our two respectable selves a most interesting case of mistaken identity, eh?”
“Yes,” said I, “I agree with you there. Go on,” seeing that it was quite hopeless to think of diverting him from his ridiculous mood.
“That is all right,” resumed Courtenay. “Now, judging from the fragmentary information we have been able to acquire thus far in our interesting conversations with that amiable old traitor, Carera, on deck there, I imagine our position to be this. We are two youthful but intelligent Spanish naval officers commissioned by the captain-general at La Guayra to accompany Carera on a little trading voyage he is making to certain lagoons lying somewhere inside the Barcos Channel. Now where is the Barcos Channel? Do you know?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea, beyond the exceedingly hazy one I have been able to form from what Carera said,” answered I.