“Good morning, Captain Baldwin; is this one of your sons?”
My father answered his salutation, and then asked him if he had any news of Pentlea.
“Not yet,” he said. “I have sent men to try to find out if they could get any news of him up at Souza’s factory, where he has gone; but they are a regular set of bad ones there, and would say anything. Why, not long ago they attacked my factory, and I had some trouble in beating them off; the caboceers have condemned them to pay me five puncheons of palm-oil, but I shall never get any of it. I have sent to the caboceers, and one will come here in the course of the day. Have you reported the case to the man-of-war?”
“Why no; what can they do?”
“Certainly they can’t land men to hunt for the thief; but the captain and some of his officers might perhaps be present at the palaver between you and the caboceer. It would make them promise more and ask less, though whether they will do any more I can’t say.”
“Very well; I will write a letter and send it off. What is the name of the captain and his ship?”
“She’s the Rover, and her captain’s name is Howard.”
“Very well; let me have paper, pen, and ink, and I will write at once, and Frank here shall take it off.”
“Why not go yourself?”
“I don’t want to lose a chance, and perhaps the caboceer may come while I am away.”