‘Why, perhaps. I must see to it,’ said Tom.
‘Vhat might der be in your holdt to barter mit?’ asked Peter Green.
‘Much that’ll prove useful to the island,’ said Tom; ‘and that’s one of the matters I wish to see Governor Glass about.’
‘Come ashore with us, capt’n,’ said the Dutchman.
‘I can’t leave the brig,’ answered Tom. ‘We’re short-handed.’
‘So! I vash vondering where der crew vhas.’
‘Gone dead?’ inquired Hagan.
‘No. They took the boat and ran from the brig in mid-ocean. There were five of them and a cook. The beauties left a note behind them to let us know what had become of them, that we shouldn’t feel uneasy. Mr. Peter Green, your British merchant seaman slowly and steadily improves, morally and intellectually. He has hauled down his bloody flag and chucked his blunderbuss to the mermaids, and now ships as a respectable man under a house flag and is rarely guilty of worse crimes than swearing away his captain’s liberty and life, or slitting a windpipe in the middle watch and making off in the ship’s quarter-boat.’
‘I do not exactly understand you, sir,’ said Peter Green, who had sat straining his withered, good-natured Dutch face to catch Tom’s meaning, his few black fangs of teeth slowly masticating the while, as though he chewed the cud.
‘There ha’n’t been no blood shed, I hope?’ said the old fellow Cotton.