"W'at's the rush?"
"No rush; but I'm goin' along all right, an' 'er Lydyship won't want to keep a chap like me 'angin' abart."
"S'pose you get a job here?"
"Now, I arsk you, Cap'n, w'at can I do in a plice where they tork neither French nor English? I'd be a byby among 'em—a silly byby."
"This salvage business may last a bit. If you like, I'll ax Mrs. Carmac to put your name on the books."
"Cap'n, d'y mean it? Well, you are a brick! It'll help a lot if I earn a quid or two while I'm crocked. I've been thinkin' abart this salvage idee. W'at's behind it?"
"Just pickin' up any odds an' ends we come across. But that's a funny question. Got something in your noddle?"
"Nothink, Cap'n. On'y it struck me that w'at between sea an' rock the Stella must be pretty well dished by this time."
"Everybody says that," growled Popple. "An' that's just why I've a fixed notion we'll find more'n anyone bargains for."
He was busy with his pipe, which refused to draw freely, so failed to perceive that the steward was gazing out into the square with a curiously brooding stare. Harry Jackson had been taught by a hard world not to blurt out everything he knew.