“It did not look as if I were, a minute or two ago,” said I. “Yon's a scoundrel, and yet I did him an injustice when I thought he meant to sell me.”
“I never sailed with a more cheat-the-widdy crew since I followed the sea,” said Horn, “and whether it's the one way or the other, sold ye are.”
“Eh?” said I, uncomprehending.
He looked again at the helm, and moved over to a water-breaker further forward, obviously meaning that I should follow. He drew a drink of water for himself, drank slowly, but seemed not to be much in the need for it from the little he took, but he had got out of ear-shot of the man steering.
“You and me's the gulls this time, Mr. Greig,” said he, whispering. “This is a doomed ship.”
“I thought as much from her rotten spars,” I answered. “So long as she takes me to Nova Scotia I care little what happens to her.”
“It's a long way to Halifax,” said he. “I wish I could be sure we were likely even to have Land's End on our starboard before waur happens. Will ye step this way, Mr. Greig?” and he cautiously led the way forward. There was a look-out humming a stave of song somewhere in the bows, and two men stretched among the chains, otherwise that part of the ship was all our own. We went down the fo'c'sle scuttle quietly, and I found myself among the carpenter's stores, in darkness, divided by a bulkhead door from the quarters of the sleeping men. Rats were scurrying among the timbers and squealing till Horn stamped lightly with his feet and secured stillness.
“Listen!” said he.
I could hear nothing but the heavy breathing of a seaman within, and the wash of water against the ship's sides.
“Well?” I queried, wondering.