“I vote for Hispaniola,” says he. “For why? The provisions is rotten, I reckon, and there we can get the boucan and ruff-dried beef from the hunters.”
“I have had no complaint of the provisions, master,” says the captain, in a sudden heat of anger.
“Ah, well, you will,” returned Dawkins, composedly. “And a mutiny too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Where’s the agent?” shouted the captain. “Where’s Mr Pomfrett?”
“Sick in his berth,” said someone.
“Sick! I’ll have no officer sick aboard my ship,” fumed the captain. “Fetch Mr Pomfrett.”
We were lifting and dipping over the long swell of the Channel mouth. Brandon shot into the cabin on the back of a roller, and crumpled down into his chair, white and dizzy.
“What’s this I hear of the provisions, Mr Agent?”
“I haven’t seen any provisions since I came aboard,” Brandon answered, faintly.
The captain made a movement of impatience. “You said mutiny, I think, Mr Dawkins,” said he. “Mutiny! Let me tell you, sir, I have a short way with mutineers. I know how to deal with a plot.”