So the grog was brought, and Jack Baldwin and Tom Granger sat down, opposite to one another, at a rickety deal table.
Presently Jack leaned over and laid his hand on Tom’s arm. “Where do you think I hail from, Tom?” said he.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll tell you: from old Nick, or old Lovejoy, or Davy Jones,—whichever you choose to call him. I was with him not ten minutes after you left. He sent me after you, to hunt you up; so I came straight here, like a hot shot, for I knew I’d find you in the old place. Sure enough, I’ve found you, and here we are,—shipmates both.”
“And what did you want of me?”
“That I’ll tell you. Tom,”—here he lowered his voice to a deep rumble—“have you seen the Nancy Hazlewood?”
“No.”
“Well I’ll show her to you after a bit. She is lying in the river, just below Smith’s Island. She’s the new privateer.”
Tom’s heart beat more quickly, but he only said, “Is she?”
“Who do you think’s the owner, Tom?”