"And you, sir——"
"Am the master of this craft—Captain John Baylis—I think you won't forget the name," he added, smiling.
"Forget it! Oh, sir, how shall I ever forget it?" I groaned. "But Hartly—poor Bob Hartly!"
"Who was he?"
"Was—is he then dead?" I exclaimed.
"I cannot say, until you tell me more."
"He was Master of the Leda, and my dear friend. She foundered in a tempest, and those you found in the longboat were the last of twenty-five stout fellows who sailed in her from St. John's, Newfoundland, on the 17th of March."
"Is he about my size; with very dark whiskers and short curly hair?"
"Yes."
"Then he is getting on famously, and lies in my chief mate's berth—but you must not speak any more at present, try to sleep; a little time, and I will be with you again."