I stared at him.
‘A fellow named Crabb,’ he began.
‘What!’ I interrupted; ‘is Crabb dead then?’
It was now his turn to stare. ‘Do you know the man, Mr. Dugdale?’
‘Why, yes,’ I answered, ‘as the ugliest creature (heaven rest his soul, since he is dead!) that ever encountered mortal gaze.’
‘But how did you learn that his name was Crabb, and that he was dying? for that you seem to have guessed also, judging from your question?’
‘Why, my dear sir,’ I answered, ‘you have a large company of sailors on board, and the ship is full of deep-sea voices, and I carry ears in my head, Mr. Prance.’
‘Humph!’ said he. ‘Well, as I’ve always said, news travels a deal too fast aboard passenger craft. In fact, I’ve known passengers to pick up things which had remained for weeks afterwards secrets to the captain and mates.’ He emptied a glass of marsala and added: ‘You are right in speaking of the man’s ugliness. I have been to see him as he lies in his bunk.’ He made a dreadful grimace and upturned his eyes to the deck above.
‘Was this Crabb a pirate?’ said I.
‘Ay,’ he answered; ‘but I had not heard of it down to half an hour ago. The carpenter knew him, but held his tongue when he found him a shipmate. Now that the fellow is dead, Chips has a yarn as long as the sea-snake about him. He did business in West Indian waters; and the carpenter says that if the stories he told against himself were to be believed, no viler miscreant ever stepped between the rails of a ship.’