It was Clifton, who was inclined to be superstitious and envious at the same time.
"Is there any news about the captain?" he asked.
"No," a single voice answered.
"Well, I expect to find him settled in his cabin some fine morning, and without any one's knowing how or whence he came aboard."
"Nonsense!" answered Bolton; "you imagine, Clifton, that he's an imp, a hobgoblin such as are seen in the Scotch Highlands."
"Laugh if you want to, Bolton; that won't alter my opinion. Every day as I pass the cabin I peep in through the keyhole, and one of these days I'll tell you what he looks like, and how he's made."
"O, the devil!" said Pen; "he'll look like everybody else. And if he wants to lead us where we don't want to go, we'll let him know what we think about it."
"All right," said Bolton; "Pen doesn't know him, and wants to quarrel with him already."
"Who doesn't know all about him?" asked Clifton, with the air of a man who has the whole story at his tongue's end; "I should like to know who doesn't."
"What do you mean?" asked Gripper.