They came within twenty yards of the boat before the swaying figure on the deck became aware of them. Then, however, to their extreme surprise he hailed them affably and called to Hal.
“Hey, you boy there, be your eyes good?”
“Ay, none so bad, sir.”
“Ah, I doubt it. Come up here, will ’ee, and see if you can make out this craft.” Then, his eyes falling on the girl, “Is it that slut Anny you have with you?”
“’Tis Anny Farren, sir,” she said, speaking for herself.
“Ah! you run down to Pet Salt, girl, she may need thee.”
Anny climbed up the rope ladder which dangled over the side, and Hal after her.
“Is Pet Salt sick, Grandsire?” she ventured timidly.
Anny had been a serving-maid at the Ship Tavern some three years and her acquaintance with profane language was not limited, but she quailed visibly and the red blood mounted from her throat to the ebony curls on her forehead before the stream of abuse levelled at the head of the unfortunate woman in the hold. She fled down the hatchway, and Hal stood looking after her, undecided whether to follow his love and protect her from the aged witch below deck, or to remain and attempt to pacify the wrathful man by the deck-house.
Ben decided for him.