"No, senor; but—but—"
"What then?"
"A man may have two caps for all that."
Perceiving that he was on the point of sinking again, Tom Lambourne poured some more of the rum into his mouth, and we dragged him into our boat, setting the skiff, which was quite useless to us, adrift once more.
"What was your ship?" asked Hislop, who spoke Spanish fluently.
"The Marshal Serrano—a Spanish brig from Cadiz."
"From the Canaries last?" I inquired hastily.
"Yes; bound to Costa Rica."
Tom Lambourne gave me a rapid glance, as he spat on his hands and pushed his oar through the rowlock.
"She foundered and went down with all hands on board," continued the famished Spaniard, in a broken voice and with quivering hips.