“Speakee capitano,” said Boulter, as if obligingly suiting his language to the comprehension of a foreigner.
In a few halting words of broken English the man declared that the captain was at supper and must not be disturbed.
“What you want?” he concluded.
“Never you mind,” said Boulter. “Bring capitano: maybe he’ll understand plain English.”
After some further colloquy the man was prevailed upon to seek the captain, and Martin felt a cold trickle along his spine when he saw in the fading light the face of Blackbeard looking down from the poop. Instinctively he shrank down on his seat.
“What you want?” demanded the captain, with his foreign accent.
“A gentleman wishes a passage in your vessel, captain,” said Boulter, persuasively. “He must get aboard at once: a foreign gentleman, you understand: can pay well: fifty pounds, say.”
“It is impossible,” said Blackbeard bluntly. “There is not cabin room for passenger. No; impossible.”
Another face was peering over his shoulder, and Martin effaced himself more thoroughly as he recognised Slocum. The goldsmith threw a searching glance over the boat. Martin saw him start, pluck Blackbeard by the sleeve, and draw him out of sight.
“Did he see me?” thought Martin, quaking a little.