He looked at me searchingly, for the first time perhaps, actually noting my features. In spite of my dirty, disheveled appearance and the bruises disfiguring my face, this scrutiny must have aroused his curiosity.
"Why do you say that, my man?" he questioned sharply. "You were before the mast and drifted aboard here because you were drunk—isn't that true?"
"Partially, yes. It was drink that put me before the mast." I explained, rejoicing in his mood, and suddenly hoping such a statement might help my status aboard. "Three years ago I was skipper on my own vessel. It was Rum ruined me."
"Saint Christopher! Do you mean to say you can read charts, and take observations?"
I smiled, encouraged by his surprise, and the change in his tone.
"Yes, sir; I saw ten years' service as mate."
"What was your last ship?"
"The Bombay Castle, London to Hong Kong; I wrecked her off Cape
Mendez in a fog. I was drunk below, and it cost me my ticket."
"You know West Indian waters?"
"Slightly; I made two voyages to Panama, and one to Havana."