“Quite sure, Captain Barclay. My cousin knows him, too.”
The captain turned to Mrs. Van Tyle. She nodded languidly.
Barclay swung back to the mate of the Nancy Hanks. “I know your kind, my man, and I can tell you that I think the penitentiary would be the proper place for you and your captain, with my compliments to him.”
“Better come and pay 'em yourself, sir,” sneered the mate.
“Get off my deck, you dirty crimp,” roared the captain. “Slide now, or I'll have you thrown off.”
Mr. Jones made a hurried departure. Once in the boat, he shook his fist at Barclay and cursed him fluently.
The captain turned away promptly. “Mr. Farwell, if you'll step this way the steward will outfit you with some clothes. If they don't fit they'll do better than those togs you're wearing.”
The English youth came forward with a suggestion. “Really, I think I can do better than that for Mr. Far—” He hesitated for the name.
“Farnum,” supplied the owner of it.
“Ah! You're about my size, Mr. Farnum. If you don't mind, you know, you're quite welcome to anything I have.”