“Is she coming up at all?” said Rothesay quietly, speaking in a low voice.
“No, sir,” answered Jensen steadily, but looking straight before him; “she did come up a point or so a little while back, but fell off again; but the wind keeps pretty steady, sir.”
Rothesay stood by him irresolutely, debating within himself. Then he walked up to the mate.
“Mr. Williams, send another man to the wheel, and tell Jensen to come below. I want to speak to him about Bougainville; he knows the place well, I have been told. And as neither you nor I do, I may get something out of him worth knowing.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the Welsh mate. “But he's mighty close over it, anyway. I've hardly heard him open his mouth yet.”
A minute or two passed, and Jensen was standing at the cabin-door, cap in hand.
“Come in,” said Rothesay, turning up the cabin lamp, and then he said quietly, “Sit down, Proctor; I want to talk to you quietly. You see, I know you.”
The seaman stood silent a moment with drooping eyes. “My name is Jensen, sir,” he said sullenly.
“Very well, just as you like. But I sent for you to tell you that I had not forgotten our former friendship, and—and I want to prove it, if you will let me.”
“Thank you, sir,” was the reply, and the man's eyes met Rothesay's for one second, and Rothesay saw that they burned with a strange, red gleam; “but you can do nothing for me. I am no longer Proctor, the disgraced and drunken captain, but Jensen, A.B. And,” with sudden fury, “I want to be left to myself.”