The sailors were scattered about the ship in groups. Some had ascended to the tops with a faint hope of finding more air; some were lying flat on their faces on the forecastle; others had sought those places which were under the sails where the occasional flap of the broad canvas sent down a slight current of air.
The Captain was standing on the quarter-deck, while Brandon was seated on a stool near the wheel. He had been treated by the Captain with unbounded hospitality, and supplied with every thing that he could wish.
“The fact is,” said the Captain, who had been conversing with Brandon, “I don’t like calms any where, still less calms with fogs, and least of all, calms off these infernal islands.”
“Why?”
“Because to the north’ard is the Strait of Sunda, and the Malay pirates are always cruising about, often as far as this. Did you ever happen to hear of Zangorri?”
“Yes.”
“Well, all I can say is, if you hadn’t been wrecked, you’d have probably had your throat cut by that devil.”
“Can’t any body catch him?”
“They don’t catch him at any rate. Whether they can or not is another question.”
“Have you arms?”