Sir Frederic, realizing that a story told on deck is common property, linked his arm in the young man's unoccupied one and catching step as best he could, walked on, while he listened somewhat absently to the Captain's narrative.
CHAPTER XXV. THE CAPTAIN'S STORY.
What manner of mankind is he
Who dares impersonate the dead?
Alas! The doom of treachery
Must some day fall upon his head.
"It was twelve years ago," the Captain was saying, "and I was in charge of the 'Water Sprite,' running from Liverpool to Calcutta. She was a rakish little craft, with a slippery keel,—quick to mind her helm and would carry sail to the last, but we'd had a long, rough voyage and all hands was pretty nigh used up, but when we was about three days from the eastern port we was struck, almost unawares, by a terrible gale. I say unawares, but I must own we was in pretty good shape for squalls all the time, but on this partic'lar night I staid below more'n I should if it hadn't been that one of the young chaps that shipped 'tween decks in the cargo at Liverpool, was a dyin' out of pure out and out sea sickness.
"Well, as I was sayin; the first officer was on the bridge and I was sittin' below with young Sinclair, when"—