"He's gone, shipmates, it's my opinion, where's neither weepin' nor whaling," said a voice behind Brand, while he was looking in the hold.
The third officer turned to behold Tom Turk, a queer old tar, with enormous head and body, and short, thick legs.
Brand looked at him, keenly.
"What did you say?" he inquired, sharply.
"It's plain English, ain't it?" said Turk, rolling his quid round and round: "there's neither weepin nor whalin' in t'other land. The old man to my thinkin', was a good sort o' chap what has gone, sir, where p'raps neither you nor I will go, sir, seein' as we've our bad p'ints!"
Brand eyed the speaker steadily, and was satisfied that he knew nothing of the dark deed committed.
Meantime the search was continued, until it was concluded that the old man, whose habit of rousing up at eight was well known, had fallen overboard.
Several months later the vessel arrived at New York Harbor.
Scarcely was she anchored when a boat containing, besides the rowers, a female and a young man, was seen pulling towards her.
The boat was soon alongside, when the young man—a tall, fine looking fellow, sprang out to assist the lady at up the gangway. She was a beautiful girl, with brown hair flowing in curls over her shoulders, a white rose-tinted skin, large, intelligent blue eyes and a form full rounded grace.