“I am no conjurer, Mr. Riach,” said the captain.
“Give me leave, sir,” said Riach; “you’ve a good head upon your shoulders, and a good Scotch tongue to ask with; but I will leave you no manner of excuse; I want that boy taken out of this hole and put in the forecastle.”
“What ye may want, sir, is a matter of concern to nobody but yoursel’,” returned the captain; “but I can tell ye that which is to be. Here he is; here he shall bide.”
“Admitting that you have been paid in a proportion,” said the other, “I will crave leave humbly to say that I have not. Paid I am, and none too much, to be the second officer of this old tub, and you ken very well if I do my best to earn it. But I was paid for nothing more.”
“If ye could hold back your hand from the tin-pan, Mr. Riach, I would have no complaint to make of ye,” returned the skipper; “and instead of asking riddles, I make bold to say that ye would keep your breath to cool your porridge. We’ll be required on deck,” he added, in a sharper note, and set one foot upon the ladder.
But Mr. Riach caught him by the sleeve.
“Admitting that you have been paid to do a murder——” he began.
Hoseason turned upon him with a flash.
“What’s that?” he cried. “What kind of talk is that?”
“It seems it is the talk that you can understand,” said Mr. Riach, looking him steadily in the face.