I got out of the bunk when he entered.
"How do you feel now?" said he, eying me in a hard, deliberate, unwinking way.
"Refreshed and recovered," said I.
He ran his gaze over my figure to observe what garments belonging to him I had arrayed myself in, then said, "What is your name?"
"James Portlack."
"What are you?"
"What was I, you must ask," said I, with a melancholy shake of the head. "Second mate of the bark Ocean Ranger," and I told him briefly of the abominable trick which the Yankee captain had played off on Captain Hoste, and which had resulted in leaving me adrift in the desperate and dying condition I had been rescued from.
"A cute dodge, truly," said he, without any exhibition of astonishment or dislike, nay, with a hint in his air of having found something to relish in the American's device. "It is what a Welshman would call 'clebber.' This is a yarn to tickle Don Christoval."
"Who is Don Christoval?" said I.
"He is Don Christoval del Padron."