“They’ve got him, sur, in the cuddy of a boat down on Spectacle Island,” replied the stevedore, frightened into conciseness by the stern voice and flaming eyes of Harrington.
“Who are they that have him? Men employed by Atkins?”
“Yes, sur. Siven o’ thim, sur. It’s me that wor to be eight.”
“Seven men paid by Atkins. Who are they? Stevedores?”
“Stevedores and sailors, sur. Twinty dollars apiece they get for it, sur.”
“What are they doing with him there?”
“Howlding on to him, sur, till the Soliman sails. She’s to heave to, and take him on board, sur.”
“When does the Soliman sail?”
“To-morrow morning at break o’ day, sur.”