“A ship? what sort of a ship?” asked the slow-moving supercargo.
“A ship—don’t you hear me tell you—a ship with masts and sails. Oh, Mother of God, how dull——”
“A ship—yes, I suppose so. But what for?” Brandon lacked the time to appreciate the situation.
Morgan stamped her foot. “To carry you from here before Murch sees you. Hark!” She stared across the garden at the great wooden gate in the wall.
“There’s nothing,” said Brandon, unmoved. “And what ails us with Mr Murch, pray? It’s I that have a quarrel with him, I think. I want to ask your Mr Murch why he marooned me.”
“How long will you dilly-dally?” cried Morgan. “Come! There’s ships in the harbour for the taking. I’ll give you ten men. What’s it to be?”
“Why,” says Brandon, “the ship I want is the Blessed Endeavour.”
“Get another and chase her, then,” returned Morgan.
Brandon stood quietly considering the matter, undisturbed by the imminent jeopardy in which we stood. For Murch desired our removal, that was clear; probably because we knew too much of his secret affairs. For myself, I could see well enough that Morgan Leroux had much of a mind towards the amiable Pomfrett; it was scarce extravagant to suppose that Murch perceived as much, having more incentive to observation; and I wondered if the old buccaneer objected to his ward’s fancy. I had no time to pursue the speculation, for there, sure enough, was the tramping of feet coming up the lane without. Then came an imperious hammering on the garden gate, and Murch’s voice bellowing for admission.
“There! I knew it!” cried Morgan, turning white as a napkin. “Go! Get you out by the back, go down to the harbour, and I’ll send the men. Go!”