“You're going in a barquentine to Dartmouth. Can you remember Blick of Kingswear?”
“Blick of Kingswear,” I repeated. “Yes, sir.”
“He's the man you're to go to.”
“Yes, sir. What am I to tell him?”
“Tell him this, Martin. Listen carefully. This, now. King Golden Cap. After Six One.”
“King Golden Cap. After Six One,” I repeated. “Blick of Kingswear. King Golden Cap. After Six One.”
“That's right,” he said. “Repeat it over. Don't forget a word of it. But I know you're too careful a lad to do that.” There was no fear of my forgetting it. I think that message is burned in into my brain under the skull-bones.
“There'll be cipher messages, too, Martin. They're also for Mr. Blick. You'll carry a little leather satchel, with letters sewn into the flap. You'll carry stockings in the satchel. Or school-books. You are Mr. Blick's sister's son, left an orphan in Holland. You'll be in mourning. Your mother died of low-fever, remember, coming over to collect a debt from her factor. Your mother was an Oulton fish-boat owner. Pay attention now. I'm going to cross-examine you in your past history.”
As we rode on into the gloom, in the still, flat, misty land, which gleamed out at whiles with water dykes, he cross-examined me in detail, in several different ways, just as a magistrate would have done it. I was soon letter-perfect about my mother. I knew Mr. Blick's past history as well as I knew my own.
“Martin,” said Mr. Jermyn suddenly. “Do you hear anything?”