“How?”
“Because, Stukeley, I may have to see the Governor about you. I may be asked about you when you land. I may even have to hand you over to—well, disgrace.”
“Rot. How the hell will the Governor know? Don’t talk nonsense.”
“Then it was forgery?”
“Certainly no damn maggot like you’ll call it anything. No man alive.”
“But supposing they try you, my friend. Eh? Suppose, when we land, when we anchor, you are taken and sent home. What would a jury call it?”
“We’re not in Falmouth harbour now. Nor in Salcombe.”
Just at this moment Captain Cammock entered, whistling a tune through his teeth. He glanced at both men, with some suspicion of their occupation. “Come for the deep-sea lead-line,” he explained. “We’ll be in soundings by to-night. Getting on nice, ain’t we?” He opened one of the lockers and took out the lead-line. “You’d ought to come on deck, sir, to-night, to see how this is done. It’s a queer sight,” he said. “I’m off to the cook now, to get a bit of tallow for the arming.”
“Stop just a moment, captain,” said Margaret. “I want to ask you something. How often do letters go to Virginia, from London?”
“I suppose about twice a week, now there’s no war. Almost every day, in the summer, you might say. Yes. They’re always going.”