Stirling studied the face of the mate in an endeavour to ascertain if he were speaking the truth. Whitehouse was far from stable in his statements.
"That's news," said Stirling. "I thought you, or somebody else, told me he was the sole owner."
"Maybe Cushner told you that."
"Maybe! It settles a point or two I was trying to fathom."
Stirling glanced at the poop, and in fancy he thought a figure appeared there. He stepped to one side of the galley house and stared aft. A shadow moved against the canvas screen, a light shot skyward, then was blotted out as the companion closed.
"Marr?" he asked, striding over to Whitehouse.
The mate grinned and reached in his pocket for a plug of tobacco. "Sure," he said. "W'o else could hit be? The old man is very irregular in 'is 'abits. Never saw any one like 'im. You never know where 'e is. All the time walking around."
Stirling crammed his hands into his pockets and turned away from the mate, but he paused at the door leading into the alleyway and his cabin.
Whitehouse, believing Stirling had passed inside, jerked his elbows, buttoned up his coat with care, smoothed down his hair, and otherwise spruced himself up. Then he started aft and mounted the poop steps, his whistle merging into a low song. Stirling heard it and wondered:
"England, oh, my England!
Gone for many a day;
I never knew I loved you
Until I sailed away."