"Old man wants you," he said. "He's callin' you, Mr. Whitehouse."
The cockney mate braced his shoulders and hurried aft to the poop steps on the weather side. He mounted them and disappeared behind the canvas where Marr had sauntered.
"What do you think?" asked Cushner.
"Nothing yet, Sam. Hold your jaw tackle. Where did you first meet with Whitehouse?"
"The same day you was shanghaied. He came across the States by rail. He brought two dunnage bags and a whacking accent with him. Had papers, all right. Said he'd been in the British navy. I asked him why he left."
"What did he say?"
"He said it was a mere matter of five thousand pounds. That's just what he said. That's money, isn't it?"
"Considerable money! I wonder if he is under obligations to Marr in any way?"
"Might be. Looks mighty like it. At that, the old man isn't telling anybody anything. He owns the ship. He's got a right to whale and seal and trade with the natives. Nothing's going to stop him doing that."
"Not if he goes after pelagic seals and keeps within the law."