The pastry cook leaned over Ethan and whispered, “There is a door in the rear that leads through the kitchen and into a small court.”
The young American looked at the man in surprise; then he felt Dale touch his sleeve, and turned toward him.
“Look outside there,” whispered the ex-master’s mate.
Ethan did as requested; to his surprise he saw the hook-nosed bearded man, of whom they had bought the clothing a short time before, conversing, with much gesticulation, with the seamen without.
“He’s a crimp,” said Dale, in a whisper, “and has betrayed us. The place is surrounded by a press-gang.”
“A press-gang!” Ethan stared at his companion.
“Yes,” said Dale, with set face; “and as I have had one experience with this sort of gentry before, I don’t care for another.”
“The rear door, gentlemen, the rear door,” whispered the pastry cook. “Here they come.”
A half dozen seamen crowded into the shop; the boatswain, who still sat nonchalantly upon the corner of the table, said, briefly:
“You’ll find over there the two we are after, lads.”