"Aye, aye; pitch into the cork-sucker!" growled several of the crew, bent upon mischief.
"Step with me this way," said Hawkshaw, with growing perturbation, drawing Pedro Barradas towards the bow of the long-boat. "I assure you that I am quite at a loss to know what you mean."
"Mean!" thundered the other, with a scowl on his dark visage, so terrible that Hawkshaw expected next moment to see a sharp knife glittering at his throat; "do you pretend to say that you have forgotten our old South American life, camarado, and how well you handled your lasso in the Barranca Secca, between Orizaba and the Puebla de Perote?"
"You are labouring under some strange mistake."
"If I were, would you take it so quietly, unless you were a coward? Mistaken! Por vida del demonio, I am not!"
"You are, fellow!"
"Oh, no, we are not mistaken," sneered the seaman.
"We?"
"Yes, we—Zuares and I. We knew you at once, and have known you ever since we cleared the Thames; so you may as well let your beard grow, and leave off skulking below when we take our trick at the wheel, or our spell at church on Sunday. You may as well leave off your blasted quarter-deck airs, too, for they won't go down with either of us."
"Scoundrel!" began Hawkshaw.