“Now then, up with you,” snapped the officer aft. “Clap that fellow in irons as he comes aboard,” he added to the quartermaster, who stood in the gangway, and who promptly laid a heavy paw upon my shoulder. I was seized by two sailors and hustled below without further ado, and when I arrived in the ’tween-decks, a fellow clapped the irons upon my wrists.
“Where’ll we put him?” asked one of the sailors of the master-at-arms, who was superintending operations.
The light from the lanterns shone upon me, and I must have presented a pretty hard spectacle. Several wounds that I had received had begun to bleed afresh, and the salt water mixed with the blood, completely saturating my clothing.
“You look like you had a clip or two, my friend,” said the master-at-arms to me. “Had a bit of a fracas, hey?”
The tone was familiar, and I looked hard at the man. Then, in spite of his clean-shaved face and uniform, I had no difficulty in recognizing old Peter Richards, bos’n of The Gentle Hand.
“Well, how in thunder did you get here?” I asked.
“Didn’t you get my note?” said Richards.
“I did, but am not the scholar you appear to be. Sink you, Peter, how did you play it on me so?”
Richards smiled grimly.
“You know,” he said, “when you first signed with old Watkins, I did not want to go in the barque. Your gaff set me on, John, and I thought you such a fool you would get in trouble. I knew what she was, well enough, but I would have stayed with her if they had treated me right. But folk in that business don’t treat people right. The whole game is one of wrong and oppression,--an’ you know it. When I left, I knew she was going out the next day, and tried to tell you, but you had just gone ashore, and when I found you had gone, I went as far as the place where you had the outfly with Curtis on account of the gal. I heard of the mess, an’ got to the long skipper’s boat in time to see him rowing you back to The Gentle Hand.”