Tommy dumped down his burden on one of the well seats.
"You've had a precious narrow squeak, my friend," he observed pleasantly.
The man nodded. "If you hadn't 'a come along as you did, sir, I'd 'ave bin dead by now—dead as a dog-fish." Then turning round he shook his gnarled fist over the Betty's stern in the direction of the vanished launch. "Sunk me wi' their blarsted wash," he quavered; "that's what they done."
"Well, accidents will happen," I said; "but they were certainly going much too fast."
"Accidents!" he repeated bitterly; "this warn't no accident. They done it a purpose—the dirty Dutchmen."
"Sunk you deliberately!" exclaimed Tommy. "What on earth makes you think that?"
A kind of half-cunning, half-cautious look came into our visitor's face.
"Mebbe I knows too much to please 'em," he muttered, shaking his head.
"Mebbe they'd be glad to see old Luke Gow under the water."
I thought for a moment that the shock of the accident had made him silly, but before I could speak Joyce came out of the cabin carrying half a tumbler of neat whisky.
"You get that down your neck," said Tommy, "and you'll feel like a two-year-old."