Jem—a Sydney man, who had never been round that coast before—briefly remarked, “Lighthouse.”
Blunt stumped into the cabin and got out his charts. No lighthouse was laid down there, only a mark like an anchor, and a note, “Remarkable Hole at this Point.” A remarkable hole indeed; a remarkable “lime kiln” would have been more to the purpose!
Blunt called up his mate, William Staples, a fellow whom Sarah Purfoy's gold had bought body and soul. William Staples looked at the waxing and waning glow for a while, and then said, in tones trembling with greed, “It's a fire. Lie to, and lower away the jolly-boat. Old man, that's our bird for a thousand pounds!”
The Pretty Mary shortened sail, and Blunt and Staples got into the jolly-boat.
“Goin' a-hoysterin', sir?” said one of the crew, with a grin, as Blunt threw a bundle into the stern-sheets.
Staples thrust his tongue into his cheek. The object of the voyage was now pretty well understood among the carefully picked crew. Blunt had not chosen men who were likely to betray him, though, for that matter, Rex had suggested a precaution which rendered betrayal almost impossible.
“What's in the bundle, old man?” asked Will Staples, after they had got clear of the ship.
“Clothes,” returned Blunt. “We can't bring him off, if it is him, in his canaries. He puts on these duds, d'ye see, sinks Her Majesty's livery, and comes aboard, a 'shipwrecked mariner'.”
“That's well thought of. Whose notion's that? The Madam's, I'll be bound.”
“Ay.”