“I vhas sorry, too. He vhas a goodt sailor. When did you bury him?”
“To-morrow.”
“He vhas steeched up by me himself. I makes a good shob of him out of respect to you, Mr. Fielding.”
“What change is to come about? If I have charge of the brig, I can’t keep watch.”
“If you vhas not in sharge, Mr. Fielding, der brick vhas der Flying Doytchman.”
“You’ll be chief mate, then. Whom can you trust to act as second—to keep a lookout, I mean?”
“Plindfold me, und der man I touch is der man you vant. Vere der eggs vhas all ash one der voorst vhas der best.”
“Let the men choose for themselves, then.”
“Dot shall be—— Und vhat vhas our port, Mr. Fielding?”
“Our port? Our port?—why—why——” I staggered in my speech, for, now that Greaves was dead, what name was I to give the place we were bound to?