"In such a state of matters, why did you not haul up for Table Bay, where some ships of war are sure to be?" asked Bartelot.
"Such was my intention; but the same hurricane that destroyed your ship drove mine too far to the southward. That circumstance made us the means of saving you; but I lost thereby a chance of thinning out, or altogether dispersing the crew, and shipping another."
"Aye, aye," observed Morrison; "what between crews of Lascars and coloured men, Chinese junks and piratical Bornese boats, there are many craft disappear in these seas, and at Lloyd's the typhoons are held responsible for all."
"If that fellow who is at the wheel, and two who are named Barradas, were quietly overboard, I could manage the rest, I think."
"Barradas! are they Spaniards?" asked Tom.
"Spanish South Americans—two of that bad lot who are so often to be seen loafing about the Liverpool docks."
"Troublesome hands always."
"And these two are among the worst—the very worst. They were chums of that fellow Hawkshaw in Texas and Mexico, at the gold diggings, and elsewhere, it would appear. They are two brothers, named Pedro and Zuares—at heart, pirates both."
"Barradas!" said Morley, striving to remember; "that name seems familiar to me."
"Have you forgotten the name of the old hermit—the 'darvish,' as Noah called him—whom we buried on the island, and whose papers I read to you?" asked Morrison.