“Are you so in love with the rope’s end that you crave more of it?” interrupted Martin Alonzo, brusquely.
“I do not understand you, cousin,” stammered Diego.
“Then you shall, and that right speedily. Look alive, you lubbers aloft there!” he roared to the sailors in the rigging. “What! will you go to sleep on the yard? I’ll be the death of some of you yet! Now harkee, boy,” he said, with an abrupt turn to Diego, “Fray Bartolomeo said you were ready of tongue, and doubtless ’twas a merit in the convent; but on the Pinta ’tis only a dangerous gift. I, only, have the privilege of the gift of language here—all the others of you may as well know at once that the only gift you may exercise with safety is that of readiness of limb when I give the word.”
“Yes, good cousin,” said Diego, more meekly.
“And cousin me no cousins,” said Martin Alonzo. “I am your captain and naught else while we are on the voyage together. And now to the point. What word have you with me?”
Truly here was no soft-hearted fray to be cajoled with ready words. Diego choked a little and then came to the point more directly than ever he had before.
“I came to ask that in arranging the watches you would put me with the honest men instead of with the convicts.”
“Who speaks of convicts?” demanded the captain, sharply.
“Why, ’tis well enough known that the crew is partly made up of prison men.”