At the same time another mutual “confidence game” was being played in a different part of the ship; but in this the understanding was between Mr Meldrum and Ben Boltrope, the ship’s carpenter and ex-man-o’-war’s-man.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the latter when the two were parting on the main deck after the termination of their labours in the lower hold. “I recognised your honour the moment you came on deck that morning of the storm in the Bay of Biscay. I couldn’t mistake the cut of your honour’s jib, sir, begging your pardon.”
“Well, I’m sure I did not recognise you, or you may be sure I would have spoken to you. Still, you need not blurt out my identity to everybody, you know.”
“Sartinly not, your honour. I’ll keep mum, sir, never you fear, though I don’t forget the old—”
“Stop,” said Mr Meldrum, changing the subject. “I’ve no doubt all hands are pretty dry after all the heat we’ve been in down below, so, with the captain’s permission, I’ll send something forward for them to splice the main brace with.”
“Aye, aye, your honour,” replied Ben; “a nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse.”
And the two parted, the one going forward to the forecastle and the other aft into the saloon.