Pet sat down heavily and looked from Dick to Blueneck in a half-witted, puzzled way, her big loose mouth sagging open, on one side showing the large yellow teeth, which so irritated Blueneck.
Suddenly she stretched out a bony hand toward Black’erchief Dick and began in a droning whine:
“May the Lord bless ye, fine gentleman; could ye spare a drop o’ rum for a poor woman to take to her man who is dying of cold? Old Pet Salt knows you, pretty sir. Old Pet don’t forget a generous face when she sees one. Pet remembers when she came to the Ship and you gave her a keg. Could you spare a little, fine gentleman?”
Dick stared at her; he remembered her now, and instinctively drew a little farther away.
“Hold thy peace, hag, and hark to me,” he said sharply, “and much rum may come of it—nay,” he continued as the old woman struggled to get to her feet and come toward him, “keep thy distance and let thy dull wit take in as much of this as it can. You have a granddaughter?”
A cunning light crept into the old bleared eyes.
“Ah!” she said, putting on a pathetic whine. “I have, God bless her pure heart and body. One my man loves dearly! What would you have with her, fine gentleman?”
Dick waved his hand.
“Woman,” he said softly, his voice taking on that musical quality which his enemies knew so well. “It would be well if thou and I knew each other’s mind a little more clearly—rum is a precious thing to you, eh?”
Pet’s eyes glistened and her lips moved without sound.