“Well, capten; ’tain’t for me to talk big o’ myself. But I’ve been over thirty year ’board a British man-o’-war—more’n one o’ ’em—an’ if I wan’t able to go mate in a merchanter, I ought to be condemned to be cook’s scullion for the rest o’ my days. If your honour thinks me worthy o’ bein’ made first officer o’ the Condor, I’ll answer for it she won’t stray far out o’ her course while my watch be on.”
“Bueno! Señor Enrique—B—blee. What is it?” asks the Chilian, re-opening the note, and vainly endeavouring to pronounce the Saxon surname.
“Blew—Harry Blew.”
“Ah, Bloo—azul, esta?”
“No, capten. Not that sort o’ blue. In Spanish, my name has a different significance. It means, as we say o’ a gale after it’s blowed past—it ‘blew.’ When it’s been a big un, we say it ‘blew great guns.’ Now ye understan’?”
“Yes; perfectly. Well, Señor Bloo, to come to an understanding about the other matter. I’m willing to take you as my first officer, if you don’t object to the wages I intend offering you—fifty dollars a month, and everything found.”
“I’m agreeable to the tarms.”
“Basta! When will it be convenient for you to enter in your duties?”
“For that matter, this minute. I only need to go ashore to get my kit. When that’s stowed, I’ll be ready to tackle on to work.”
“Muy bien! señor; you can take my boat for it. And if you see any sailors who want to join, I authorise you to engage them at double the usual wages. I wish to get away as soon as a crew can be shipped. But when you come back we’ll talk more about it. Call at Señor Silvestre’s office, and tell him he needn’t look for me till a later hour. Say I’ve some business that detains me aboard. Hasta Luego!”