“Well!” said Jim; “and so this is what you call rushing around?”
“Who are you?” cries the captain.
“Me! I'm Pinkerton!” retorted Jim, as though the name had been a talisman.
“You're not very civil, whoever you are,” was the reply. But still a certain effect had been produced, for he scrambled to his feet, and added hastily, “A man must have a bit of dinner, you know, Mr. Pinkerton.”
“Where's your mate?” snapped Jim.
“He's up town,” returned the other.
“Up town!” sneered Pinkerton. “Now, I'll tell you what you are—you're a Fraud; and if I wasn't afraid of dirtying my boot, I would kick you and your dinner into that dock.”
“I'll tell you something, too,” retorted the captain, duskily flushing. “I wouldn't sail this ship for the man you are, if you went upon your knees. I've dealt with gentlemen up to now.”
“I can tell you the names of a number of gentlemen you'll never deal with any more, and that's the whole of Longhurst's gang,” said Jim. “I'll put your pipe out in that quarter, my friend. Here, rout out your traps as quick as look at it, and take your vermin along with you. I'll have a captain in, this very night, that's a sailor, and some sailors to work for him.”
“I'll go when I please, and that's to-morrow morning,” cried the captain after us, as we departed for the shore.
“There's something gone wrong with the world to-day; it must have come bottom up!” wailed Pinkerton. “Bellairs, and then the hotel clerk, and now this Fraud! And what am I to do for a captain, Loudon, with Longhurst gone home an hour ago, and the boys all scattered?”
“I know,” said I. “Jump in!” And then to the driver: “Do you know Black Tom's?”
