“What is he here for?”
“Don’t know at all,” returned Jack. “He can’t have come after me, I suppose.”
“Has he left the ship?”
“I can’t tell. I told the brokers in London I should wish to have another first officer appointed in Pym’s place. When they asked why, I only said he and I did not hit it off together very well. I don’t care to report ill of the young man; it might damage his prospects; and he may do better with another master than he did with me.”
At that moment Pym overtook us, and accosted Jack: saying something about some bales of “jute,” which, as I gathered, had constituted part of the cargo.
“Have you got your discharge from the ship, Mr. Pym?” asked Jack, after answering his question about the bales of jute.
“No, sir.”
“No!”
“Not yet. I have not applied for it. There’s some talk, I fancy, of making Ferrar chief,” added Pym. “Until then I keep my post.”
The words were not insolent, but the tone had a ring in it that betokened no civility. I thought Pym would have liked to defy Jack had he dared. Jack’s voice, as he answered, was a little haughty—and I had never heard that from Jack in all my life.