The bars were shoved home; the barbarous cacophony of the clanking pump rose in the waist; and streams of ill-smelling water gushed on deck and made valleys in the slab guano. Nares leaned on the rail, watching the steady stream of bilge as though he found some interest in it.
“What is it that bothers you?” I asked.
“Well, I'll tell you one thing shortly,” he replied. “But here's another. Do you see those boats there, one on the house and two on the beds? Well, where is the boat Trent lowered when he lost the hands?”
“Got it aboard again, I suppose,” said I.
“Well, if you'll tell me why!” returned the captain.
“Then it must have been another,” I suggested.
“She might have carried another on the main hatch, I won't deny,” admitted Nares; “but I can't see what she wanted with it, unless it was for the old man to go out and play the accordion in, on moonlight nights.”
“It can't much matter, anyway,” I reflected.
“O, I don't suppose it does,” said he, glancing over his shoulder at the spouting of the scuppers.
“And how long are we to keep up this racket?” I asked. “We're simply pumping up the lagoon. Captain Trent himself said she had settled down and was full forward.”