“That’s a good one!” exclaimed Tom. “You can tell that to the marines. I bet you’ve got a snug little pile of piastres stowed away somewhere.”
“P’raps I haive,” said the old Turk, nodding his head as he smiled complacently; “and if you young shentlemens should be vat you call ‘ard oop,’ I could lend you some moneys. But don’t talk so loud,” he added cautiously, casting a glance at a group of Greek sailors who were gabbling away near them, and scanning Tom and Charley curiously, “I don’t like de look of dose fellows dere, and dey might hear us talk if dey leesten, and vill remembers.”
“What of that?” asked Charley; “I don’t suppose they would understand us.”
“Aha, so you tink,” said Mohammed warily. “But dose Grecs are ver knowing and oop to every ting. Dey are bad, ver bad, every one.”
As he spoke two of the Greeks separated themselves from the group, and came over to where they were sitting, as if sent for the purpose.
“I understand,” said one, who acted as spokesman, and addressed them in the most perfect English, “that your captain is in want of hands?”
The question was pertinent enough, as more than half the crew were laid up in the Beyrout hospital, or lazaretto, with a sort of malarial fever, and the Muscadine was only waiting for their recovery, or until enough hands could be shipped, to enable her to pursue her voyage to her next port, Smyrna, where she was to complete her cargo, and then sail for England.
The boys of course knew this well enough, but they did not see it was any business of the Greeks, and after Mohammed’s hint as to their character they resented the inquiry as a piece of impudence.
“How do you know which is our ship?” said Charley, in Irish fashion asking another question, in lieu of answering the one addressed to him; “and if you do, whether she wants hands or not?”
He spoke rather uncivilly, but the man replied to him with studied politeness.