"I thought so," said Selwyn. "And the curious thing about it was that the whole thing was done as quietly as possible. All you men went to work in silence without as much as a hurrah. And one of the boats brought me ashore and the other brought the admiral. And it was only after you had put the man on board the Harvester that you came back for the admiral at five in the morning, Benson."
"And what about the boat as brought you, sir?"
"I came back at twelve and went on board with them, after the fight, and while you were rowing Mr. Smith about the bay, cheering him up."
"Was there anything else, sir?"
"Nothing," said Selwyn, "only that I forget whether it came out. If it did, the men said it was a game all of their own. And I think—no, I'm sure—that if any one got into trouble it paid him well, after all."
"Of course it would, sir," said Benson warmly. "I wish it could really come off. You never know your luck, sir."
"I think Mr. Smith doesn't," said Selwyn.
And when Benson went on board again and had a long confabulation with two boats' crews, there was a unanimous opinion among them that Mr. Smith had piled his ship up with a vengeance when he ran against a British admiral.
"There ain't to be no weepons," said Benson—"nothin' worse nor more cuttin' than a stay-sail 'ank as a knuckle-duster, and even that I don't recommend. An odd stretcher or two and the bottles there will do the job. And the word is silence, now and then."
"Mum's the word," said the men. And like the children that they were, they wrought the whole ship's company into a frenzy of excitement, by dropping hints about as heavy as a half-hundredweight on every one who was not in the game. Had there been much longer to wait than twenty-four hours, they must have told, or burst. And if they had not burst, the others would have finally reached the truth by the process of exhaustion.