“He!” she exclaimed, in surprise. Then after a little silence she added:
“He is an evil looking man; I’ve told father so more than once, but he says that a man is not always as bad as he looks. Father has seen so many people and so much of the world, that I seldom question his judgment; but I have been impressed from the first that there was something wrong about him—and about that Mr. Weeks, who is in partnership with him, and whom we expect to meet at Savannah.
“It is a strange thing—this searching for a derelict brig—any way. I tell father that there is something wrong back of it.”
“There is,” Brandon declared. “I don’t dare tell you about it now. You won’t let anybody know I’m here, will you?”
“No—o, I’ll promise that. It wasn’t right to stow yourself away aboard the brig, but you look honest—although you are awfully dirty and ragged,” said this most plain spoken young lady.
“I know it; I look terribly,” whispered Don, creeping through the door into the hold again. Then he turned about and asked, “What is your name, please?”
“Milly Frank.”
“Thank you; and mine is Brandon Tarr. Some time I can explain all this to you, and you will see that I did the only thing I could in stowing myself away here.”
“But how do you expect to get out?”
“I hope we’ll get to port in the night. If we do, then I’ll try to slip out through the cabin.”