Free Martin Hyde by John Masefield Page A

the carpenter, sinking his voice. "There's something queer about that Mr. Jermyn. 'E wears a false beard. That Mr. Scott isn't all what he pretends neither."
    "I don't see how that can be," the boatswain said, "I wish I'd a drink of something. I'm as dry as a foul block."
    "There'd be more'n a dram to us two, if Mr. Scott was what I think," said the carpenter. "I'm going to keep my eye on that gang."
    "Keep your eye on the moon," said the boatswain. "I tell you what'd raise drinks pretty quick."
    "What would?"
    "That loblolly boy would."
    "Eh?" said the carpenter. "Go easy, Joe. He may be awake."
    "Not he," said the boatswain, carelessly glancing into my hammock, where I lay like all the Seven Sleepers condensed. "Not he. Snoring young hound. Do him good to raise drinks for the crowd."
    "Eh," said the carpenter, a quieter, more cautious scoundrel than the other (therefore much more dangerous).


"How would a boy like that?" He left his sentence unfinished.
    "Sell him to one of these Dutch East India merchants," said the boatswain. "There's always one or two of them in the Canal, bound for Java. A likely young lad like that would fetch twenty pounds from a Dutch skipper. A white boy would sell for forty in the East. Even if we only got ten, there'd be pretty drinking while it lasted."
    This evidently made an impression on the carpenter, for he did not answer at once. "Yes," he said presently. "But a lad like that's got good friends. He don't talk like you or I, Joe."
    "Friends in your eye," said the other. "What's a lad with good friends doing as loblolly boy?"
    "Run away," the carpenter said. "Besides, Mr. Jermyn isn't likely to let the lad loose in Haarlem."
    "He might. We could keep a watch," the boatswain answered. "If he goes ashore, we could tip off Longshore Jack to keep an eye on him. Jack gets good chances,–working the town."
    "Yes," said the other. "I mean to put Longshore Jack on to this Mr. Jermyn. If I aren't foul of the buoy there's money in Mr. Jermyn. More than in East Indian slaves."
    "Oh," the boatswain answered, carelessly, "I don't bother about my betters, myself. What d'ye think to get from Mr. Jermyn?"
    The carpenter made no answer; but lighted his pipe at the lantern, evidently turning over some scheme in his mind. After that, the talk ran on other topics, some of which I could not understand. It was mostly about the Gold Coast, about a place called Whydah, where there was good trading for negroes, so the boatswain said. He had been there in a Bristol brig, under Captain Travers, collecting trade, i. e. negro slaves. At Whydah they had made King Jellybags so drunk with "Samboe" (whatever Samboe was) that they had carried him off to sea, with his whole court. "The blacks was mad after," he said, "the next ship's crew that put in there was all et on the beach. I seed their bones after. All picked clean. But old King Jellybags fetched thirty pound in Port Royal, duty free." He seemed to think that this story was something to laugh at.
    I strained my ears to hear more of what they said. I could catch nothing more relating to myself. Nothing more was said about me. They told each other stories about the African shore, where the schooners anchored in the creeks, among the swamp-smells, in search of slaves or gold dust. They told tales of Tortuga, where the pirates lived together in a town, whenever they were at home after a cruise. "Rum is cheaper than water there," the bo'sun said. "A sloop comes off once a month with stores from Port Royal. Its happy days, being in Tortuga." Presently the two men crept aft to the empty cabin to steal the captain's brandy. Soon afterwards they passed forward to their hammocks.
    When they had gone, I lay awake, wondering how I was to avoid this terrible danger of being sold to the Dutch East India merchants. I wondered who Longshore Jack might be. I feared that the carpenter suspected our party. I kept repeating his words, "There's money in Mr. Jermyn," till at last,