“Don’t talk to me,” hissed Dick, between his teeth.
“Go on,” said Mansfield, to the accuser.
“Thank you. So I will. A fortnight ago, gentlemen, a small boy went down to Templeton—”
“Wait!” interposed Mansfield, “we must have names. What boy?”
“A small boy named Coote,” began Pledge.
Coote, at the sound of his name, half-bounded from his seat. He knew he was “in it.” But what on earth had any proceedings of his a fortnight ago to do with the loss of the Martha?
“Went down to Templeton to a shop—”
“What shop?” demanded Mansfield.
“To Webster’s shop,” replied Pledge, beginning to be ruffled by the Captain’s determined manner.
The “Firm” started suddenly. Whatever was coming?