"Sorry for him?"
"Yes! In fact, I rather like him."
"Like him?" Charlie bellowed; "the pock-marked swine!"
"I grant," I said, smiling, and recalling Charlie's own words of long ago, "that his face is against him."
"Rather like him? You must be crazy! You certainly have the rummiest taste."
"At least you'll admit this much, Charlie," I said; "he has courage—and I respect courage even in a cockroach—particularly, perhaps, in a cockroach ..."
"He's a cockroach, all right," said Charlie.
"Maybe," I assented. "I don't pretend to love him, but—"
"If you don't mind," interrupted Charlie, "we'll let it go at 'but'—". And he rose. "The tide's beginning to run out. Send me word where you are, as soon as you get a chance; and good luck to you, old chap, and your doubloons and pieces of eight!"
Then we walked down to his row-boat, and soon he was aboard the sponger. Her sails ran up, and they were off down stream—poor Tobias, manacled, somewhere between decks.