“Señorita... proteccion del opprimido; oh, hija de piedad... Señorita.”
His lamentable noise brought half the ship round us; the sailors fell back before the mate, Sebright, walking at the elbow of a stout man in loose trousers and jacket. They stopped.
“An unexpected meeting, Captain Williams,” was all I found to say to him. He had a constrained air, and shook hands in awkward silence.
“How do you do?” he said hurriedly. After a moment he added, with a sort of confused, as if official air, “I hope, Kemp, you’ll be able to explain satisfactorily...”
I said, rather off-handedly, “Why, the two men I killed ought to be credentials enough for all immediate purposes!”
“That isn’t what I meant,” he said. He spoke rather with a mumble, and apologetically. It was difficult to see in him any trace of the roystering Williams who had roared toasts to my health in Jamaica, after the episode at the Ferry Inn with the admiral. It was as if, now, he had a weight on his mind. I was tired. I said:
“Two dead men is more than you or any of your crew can show. And, as far as I can judge, you did no more than hold your own till I came.”
He positively stuttered, “Yes, yes. But...”
I got angry with what seemed stupid obstinacy.
“You’d be having a rope twisted tight round your head, or red-hot irons at the soles of your feet, at this very moment, if it had not been for us,” I said indignantly.