He
stared at the six of us sprawled out grotesquely on the deck, where we had
thrown ourselves when the ship swung at her anchor. He looked up at the
loose, half-furled sails. He turned to Roger, who stood gaunt and silent
before him. "Bless my soul! _Who are you?_"
"I," said Roger, "am Mr. Hamlin, supercargo of this ship."
"But where--what in heaven's name has taken place? Where's Captain
Whidden?"
"Captain Whidden," said Roger, "is dead."
"But when--but what--"
"_Who are you?_" Roger fired the words at him like a thunderclap.
"I--I--I am Mr. Johnston, agent for Thomas Webster and Sons," the man
stammered.
"Sir," cried Roger, "if you are agent for Thomas Webster and Sons, fetch us
food and water and get watchmen to guard this ship while we sleep. Then,
sir, I'll tell you such a story as you'll not often hear."
The well-fed, comfortable man regarded him with a kind of frown. The
situation was so extraordinary that he simply could not comprehend it. For
a moment he hesitated, then, stepping to the side, he called down some
order, which I did not understand, but which evidently sent the boat
hurrying back to the landing. As he paced the deck, he repeated over and
over in a curiously helpless way, "Bless my soul! Bless my soul!"
All this time I was aware of Roger still standing defiantly on the
quarter-deck.
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