“Hello, there!” he bawled at the stranger.
His answer was a hoarse chuckle from the stout man, which swelled into a hearty laugh.
“Hello, there! Is that you, Bill Garnett?” repeated the skipper.
I heard the bow-legged man mutter something, and then take off his cap and mop his bald head, which shone in the moonlight.
“Well, sure enough, so it is,” he finally answered.
“Who the devil would be sailing with such a cargo but me? Why in thunder didn’t you tell me ’twas you, messmate? and I would have tried to put more water atween us—though there ain’t no danger.”
I had been watching him while he was talking, and I now recognized the old mate easily enough. Nearly every man in the deep-water trade at that time had seen or heard of old Bill Garnett.
“I might have known it was you,” growled Crojack. “Always an ornery, bull-headed, headstrong mate, trying to make trouble. Why don’t you keep off and give us more room?”
“Well, well, I am mate o’ this craft, sure enough,” laughed the old sailor, “but it ain’t such a bad job alongside o’ being a d——d, shad-bellied, thieving shipmaster. As for room, you’ve got the whole ocean and can change your course as easy as my skipper can change his—but you was always a hard man to reason with.”
And old Garnett began to walk fore and aft on his deck, chuckling audibly.