The big man at his side smiled.
“Nay, prithee, Captain,” he said, “’tis none so bad.”
The Spaniard turned to him fiercely, but Big French went on quietly: “If you be a wanting to stay the brig here for the next tide,” he said, “best to take her up the Pyfleet round to the back o’ the Ship—plenty o’ water up there,” he added.
Black’erchief Dick shrugged his shoulders.
“The Pyfleet?” he said. “Surely that is Captain Fen de Witt’s haven? I would not take advantage of his hiding-place.”
The smile on the big man’s face vanished.
“Lord, Captain!” he said quickly, “you cannot leave the brig in open channel all the night. The Preventative folk may not be very spry hereabouts, but they ain’t all dead yet—no, not by a long way they ain’t.”
The Spaniard replied with another shrug.
“As you wish,” he said, and then with a smile, his teeth flashing in the dusk, he added: “But that I need thee to-night, Master Hercules, I would not so easily have yielded.”
Big French flushed but he spoke quietly.