“The same,” assented Jack.
“Well, this is luck. I was on my way up to your station. On the boat deck, I believe it is. This will save me trouble.”
The man’s manner was patronizing and offensive. Jack felt his pride bridling, but fought the feeling back.
“What can I do for you, Mr.—Mr.——”
“Jarrold’s the name; James Jarrold of New York. Have you had any messages from a yacht—the Endymion—for me?”
“Why, no, Mr. Jarrold,” replied Jack wonderingly. “Is she anywhere about these waters?”
“If she isn’t, she ought to be. How late do you stay on watch?”
“Till midnight. Then my assistant relieves me till eight bells of the morning watch.”
Mr. Jarrold suddenly changed the subject as they stood at the rail on the plunging, heaving deck. Somebody had closed the door that he had left open in his abrupt exit, and Jack could not see his face.
“We’re going to have bad weather to-night?” he asked.