“Ah, a Calcutta-Sydney ship, most likely,” said Stenhouse to his comrades. Then turning to Masik—“Why came she here? Didst ask?”
“Aye,” replied the man in his native tongue; “the ship came here because there be many sick, and two dead men on board. It is a strong sickness.”
“Didst speak of us white men here?”
The man nodded. “Aye, and the mate said that the captain would like thee all to come to the ship; but to hasten, for when the two men are buried to-morrow the ship will sail And the mate gave me these for thee.”
Adams eagerly extended his hand for a bundle of newspapers which Masik carried wrapped up in a piece of old sail-cloth.
“This is a god-send,” said Adams, as he opened the packet and tossed some of the papers to Stenhouse and Ford, “only about six months old. Hallo, here's the name of the ship and captain I suppose, on one of them:
Roger Fullerton, Esq., Ship Ramillies———”
“What!”
It was Stenhonse who spoke, and his usual cheerful voice now sounded cracked and discordant, as with an oath he tore the paper from his comrade's hand, read the name, and then sat down, with one hand pressed to his sightless orb, his whole frame trembling from head to foot.
“What is the matter, Ted?” asked Ford anxiously.