‘Have the sailors noticed anything queer in their captain?’
‘They’re such a party of ignorant scow-bankers,’ said he, with a slow look round, to make sure that the coast was clear, ‘that I don’t believe they’re capable of noticing anything if it ain’t a pannikin of rum shoved under their noses.’
‘I don’t mind whispering to you,’ said I, ‘that the captain hinted to me they were not a very reputable body of men—talked vaguely of mutineers and convicts, with one fellow amongst them,’ I went on, bating my voice to a mere whisper, ‘who had committed a murder.’
He stared at me a moment, and then tilted his cap over his nose to scratch the back of his head.
‘He’ll know more about ’em, then, than I do,’ he responded; ‘they’re ignorant enough to do wrong without troubling themselves much to think of the job when it was over. Mutineering I don’t doubt some of ’em have practised. As to others of ’em being convicts, why who’s to tell? Likely as not, says I. But when it comes to murder—a middling serious charge, ain’t it, sir? Of course I dunno—who might the party be, sir?’
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, ‘it was a vague sort of talk, as I told you. But if Miss Temple and I are to stick to this ship till we get to the Mauritius, it would comfort her, and me, too, for the matter of that, to learn that her crew are not the band of ruffians we have been led to imagine them.’
‘Well, sir,’ he exclaimed thoughtfully—‘I’m sure you’ll forgive me, but I don’t rightly recollect your name.’
‘Well, Mr. Dugdale, as you asks for my opinion, I’ll give it ye. Of course, it’ll go no furder, as between man and man.’
‘Certainly not. I am myself trusting you up to the hilt, as what I have said must assure you. You may speak in perfect confidence.’