“Ah, and what will you be wanting to-night, Captain?” he said.
“Passage in thy cart to the Victory, friend,” replied the Spaniard.
“Oh!” Big French spoke dubiously. “Why do you not rest at the Ship?” he enquired.
“The Ship?” the thin lips curled in contempt. “Dick Delfazio stay at a wayside tavern? This moon hath made thee mad, friend French.”
Big French sighed involuntarily and the Spaniard laughed.
“A wench?” he asked.
“Nay,” the blood suffused the young man’s handsome face and he spoke shortly.
“Well, take me to the Victory,” repeated the Spaniard.
An anxious snuff sounded at his elbow as he spoke. He turned quickly just in time to seize Habakkuk Coot by the neck of his guernsey.
“You evil-smelling son of a rat,” he began slowly, giving the little man a shake at every word, “get thee back to the brig and tell Blueneck I would speak to him.”