‘I am desirous of creating plenty of chances for ourselves,’ said I; then gathering that this might not be a topic profitable to pursue in the presence of so singular a listener as Captain Braine, I again branched off. ‘How many,’ said I carelessly, ‘go to a crew with you, captain?’
He answered leisurely: ‘Thirteen as we now are, all told. There was fourteen afore Mr. Chicken died.’
‘Well, even at that,’ said I, ‘a single watch should be able to reef down for you. I suppose’—here I sunk my voice—‘that Mr. Lush yonder is now your chief mate?’
‘No,’ he replied, speaking stealthily; ‘I’m my own chief mate. He’s the ship’s carpenter, and stands watch as second officer. But what are ye to do,’ he proceeded, preserving his stealthy delivery, ‘with a man whose education don’t let him go no further than making a mark for his name?’
‘Then, I take it, there is nobody aboard capable of navigating the vessel but yourself?’
‘We’ll talk about that presently,’ said he with a singular look, and pointing with his finger to the deck.
I observed that Miss Temple narrowly watched him.
‘Was Mr. Chicken a pretty good navigator?’ said I.
He appeared to forget himself in thought, then with a slow emerging air, so to speak, and a steadfast, quite embarrassing stare, he responded: ‘Chicken was acquainted with the use of the sextant. He likewise understood the meaning of Greenwich time. He couldn’t take a star; but his reckonings was always close when he got them out of the sun. He’d been bred a collierman, and it took him some time to recover the loss of coasts and lee shores and lights. But he was a good sailor, and a religious man; and his death was a blow, sir.’
‘Almost a pity that it wasn’t Mr. Lush who was beckoned overboard,’ said I. (The carpenter had now trudged aft, and was looking into the compass out of hearing.)