“Have you got the clothes as I directed?”
“Yes.”
“Then good night. I'll put my fire out, in case somebody else might see it, who wouldn't be as kind as you are.”
“Good night.”
“Not a word for the Madam,” said Staples, when they reached the vessel.
“Not a word, the ungrateful dog,” asserted Blunt, adding, with some heat, “That's the way with women. They'll go through fire and water for a man that doesn't care a snap of his fingers for 'em; but for any poor fellow who risks his neck to pleasure 'em they've nothing but sneers! I wish I'd never meddled in the business.”
“There are no fools like old fools,” thought Will Staples, looking back through the darkness at the place where the fire had been, but he did not utter his thoughts aloud.
At eight o'clock the next morning the Pretty Mary stood out to sea with every stitch of canvas set, alow and aloft. The skipper's fishing had come to an end. He had caught a shipwrecked seaman, who had been brought on board at daylight, and was then at breakfast in the cabin. The crew winked at each other when the haggard mariner, attired in garments that seemed remarkably well preserved, mounted the side. But they, none of them, were in a position to controvert the skipper's statement.
“Where are we bound for?” asked John Rex, smoking Staples's pipe in lingering puffs of delight. “I'm entirely in your hands, Blunt.”
“My orders are to cruise about the whaling grounds until I meet my consort,” returned Blunt sullenly, “and put you aboard her. She'll take you back to Sydney. I'm victualled for a twelve-months' trip.”