“Where’s Mr. Pym?” cried the captain. “Mr. Pym!”
“Mr. Pym’s in the cabin, sir,” said the steward, who chanced to be passing.
“In the cabin!” echoed Jack, in an accent that seemed to imply the cabin was not Mr. Pym’s proper place just then. “Send him to me, if you please, steward.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the steward. But he did not obey with the readiness exacted on board ship. He hesitated, as if wanting to say something before turning away.
No Pym came. Jack grew impatient, and called out an order or two. Young Saxby came up, touching his cap, according to rule.
“Do you want me, sir?”
“I want Mr. Pym. He is below. Ask him to come to me instantly.”
It brought forth Pym. Jack’s head was turned away for a moment, and I saw what he did not. That Pym had a fiery face, and walked as if his limbs were slipping from under him.
“Oh, you are here at last, Mr. Pym—did you not receive my first message?” cried Jack, turning round. “The cargo must be broken out to find the place of leakage. See about it smartly: there’s no time to waste.”
Pym had caught hold of something at hand to enable him to stand steady. He had lost his wits, that was certain; for he stuttered out an answer to the effect that the cargo might be—hanged.