"Twelve—twelve o'clock is it?" he stammered, with confusion, as he leaped out.
"Yes, to a minute; the ladies and all have supped and turned in. By Jove! you've had a long spell in your berth. Can you make your way forward alone?"
"Oh yes," replied Hawkshaw, who reeled like a tipsy man, for the ship was now running before the wind, so she rolled till her lower studdingsail-booms nearly touched the water.
"You have your revolver, of course?"
"Yes," said Hawkshaw, with chattering teeth.
"Ah! we never know what may happen. By-the-by, I have got the names of those four sea-waifs; but the captain has gone to bed."
"And who are they?" asked Hawkshaw, in a faint voice, and half averting his face.
Heriot opened his note-book, and drawing nearer the cabin lamp, read:
"Thomas Bartelot, late master of the 'Princess,' of London, a 300-ton ship, from Rio last; William Morrison (countryman of mine) first-mate of the same; Noah Gawthrop, a seaman——"
"And the fourth?" asked Hawkshaw, in agony, as Heriot paused.