Several other men were sitting round the fire. They were Habakkuk Coot, sniffing as usual and drinking spiced ale; Old Master Granger, guffawing at Gilbot, and sipping his neat rum with obvious relish; Cip de Musset, chewing a chunk of coarse black tobacco, a habit much disapproved of by the Islanders who thought the weed a dangerous, new-fangled drug, and of no use save to sell to other people; and one or two others. All very merry and cheerful and good company to each other.
Blueneck drank his rum and, beginning to feel more cheerful, he leaned forward a little to join in the talk.
“Ah! a wonderful funny thing that be,” Granger was saying, as he shook his head sagely. “You’re right, a wonderful funny thing.”
“Ah! and what’s more, it ain’t the first time it’s happened,” put in another man casually.
“What?”
In an instant the company’s attention was fixed on the new speaker and he looked round as though he were going to say something very secret.
“Six months ago on Ray Island,” he said.
“Oh, everyone knows that, Tom Fish. Go home with your old stories!”
There was a note of disappointment in their voices and they all laughed. The man muttered something about there being old and old, and subsided.
Blueneck came a little nearer.