“Ay, ay, sir!” was the prompt response, the sailor himself giving it, along with the salutation described.
During the short interval of silence that succeeds, Harry’s heart can be distinctly heard beating. Lately depressed—“Down in the dumps,” as he himself would word it—it is now up in his throat. The sight of his patron, the saver of his life, is like having it saved a second time. Perhaps they have come to ask him to rejoin the ship? If so, ’tis the very thing he was thinking of. He will not anticipate, but waits for them to declare their errand.
“Well, Harry, old boy,” says Crozier, after warmly shaking the sailor’s hand, “I’m right glad to find you here. I was afraid you’d gone off to the diggings.”
“True, Master Ed’ard; I did intend standin’ on that tack, but ha’n’t been able to get under way, for want o’ a wind.”
“Want of a wind? I don’t quite understand you.”
“Why, you see, sir, I’ve been a little bit spreeish since comin’ ashore, and my locker’s got low—more’n that, it’s total cleared out. Though I suppose there be plenty of gold in them diggin’s, it takes gold to get there; and as I ha’n’t any, I’m laid up here like an old hulk foul o’ a mud bank. That’s just how it be, gen’lemen.”
“In which case, perhaps you mightn’t feel indisposed to go to sea again?”
“Just the thing I war thinkin’ o’, Master Ed’ard. I’d a’most made up my mind to it, sir, an’ war ’bout startin’ to try get aboard the old Crusader, and askin’ your honour to ha’ my name entered on her books again. I’m willin’ to join for a fresh tarm, if they’ll take me.”
“They’d take, and be glad to get you, Harry; you may be sure of that. Such a skilled sailor need never be without a ship, where there’s a British man-of-war within hailing distance. But we don’t want you to join the Crusader.”
“How is that, sir?”