“Not particularly, Mr. Williams,” was the reply.
“But I have always been under the impression that vessels bound for the West Coast headed for the Canaries?”
“So they do, if they’re logged for a straight run. It happens this time, however, that my ole tub has to call in at Rabat and Mogador.”
“At Rabat!” repeated Mr. Williams, seemingly staggered at the mere mention of the place.
“Yes, funny little hole. Ever bin there?”
“No.”
“Well, p’raps you’ll go ashore. If you do you’ll see the queerest collection of humans you’ve ever set eyes on.”
Mr. Williams turned and gazed at the horizon.
“I think I’m bewitched,” he muttered.
“Wot’s that?”