A touch on a lever would set a winch spinning as the anchor leaped to its task. The man charged with carrying out that duty without hitch or delay could spare thought for nothing else.
One of the deck-hands, stationed near the chocks, chanced to be the very Spaniard whose life had been endangered by the falling block on the day after the ship left Cartagena. The ship’s carpenter was ill, and the Spaniard was carpenter’s mate.
Maseden caught his eye, and the man smiled wanly.
“You did me a good turn the other day, señor,” he said. “Let me repay you now.”
“But how?” came the surprised inquiry.
“Underneath my bunk, the lowest one on the left in number seven berth, you will find my kit-bag. Beneath some clothes is a bottle of good old brandy. Get it, and drink it quickly.”
“Why?”
“You will put a pint of honest liquor to good use, and in ten minutes you won’t care what happens.”
“I have no desire to die drunk,” said Maseden quietly.
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders.