"Who's wild, then ?" a deep voice was asking.
A sharp voice like that of a rook replied: "These Rowhedge chavvies."
"Rowhedge" — he had heard the name before. Where? The way it had been said was the same, too.
"What call they got to be wild, then? Good wreck, ain't it?"
"Ah, but it ain't so good as what they expected. See, Dukey, they was hoping she'd be full up of general cargo, 'Stead of that, 'twas only these here h'emigrants. They ain't aboard, and if they was you couldn't hardly sell 'em." There was a short gruff laugh; then the cracked voice went on: "Well then, when they got down to the lower holds at low-water, what you reckon they found? Road-rails! Blinking great sixty-foot lengths of rail for the railways out there. Tell you what, I very near bust meself laughing to see the poor beggars standing there looking at 'em, and wondering how they was going to shift 'em." There was a roar of laughter. Jim had been utterly bewildered at first, at the change from the cold, windy, open platform to the warm, close pitch-blackness of the berth. Now the clouds slowly cleared from his mind. He was afloat, and in a small craft, to judge by the quick jerking of the motion. And the men? They must be the salvagers Jordan had spoken of. Just a minute — one of them had called the other "Dukey" — the man Jordan had mentioned! And the queer drawling accent — that was the same too — they must be Kent men like Jordan, and he was aboard their smack.
Then his body began to remind him of its needs. His face, ears, and hands throbbed and felt raw, as if they had been rubbed with sandpaper, and his mouth was intolerably parched. In a strange croaking voice which he hardly recognized, he heard himself say: "A drink. Get me a drink."
There was a quick, startled movement from the cabin; the sharp voice said: " 'Ello-'ello! He's awake!" The door was slid right back and a figure loomed black against the painful flood of light. Bert Anderson bent over him, peering into his face. "Ah, there you are, sir. We wondered when you was going to wake up."
"Where am I? Who are you?"
"You're on board the Maud, o' Whitstable, sir. I'm Bert Anderson, Mate. That's the Skipper, Mr Dukey Smith, and him over there, that's ornery seaman Bright. Now, how about a drop o'rum? Or p'raps whisky? Or port wine?"
"Thanks. Rum, if you please."
"Don't thank me, sir, 'tis all out of your own wardroom." There was a bellow of laughter from the appreciative Dukey. "Now then," went on the Mate, "what you fancy to eat? We got bully, ham, or you can have some o' this big ole tin of tongue what we've started. And we ain't finished the duff what old Shiner made, either. You could foUer with a bit o' that, sir."
It was not hard to detect the mockery behind the apparent respectfulness; it reminded him of Jordan. However, the solid food was welcome, for it was now late evening, and he had not eaten for more than twenty-four hours. Had he not been so ravenous, it would have seemed embarrassing to eat at the little central table under the curious, critical stare of the three smacksmen — the powerful Skipper, with his wildly-tangled black hair and beard, harsh, handsome features and flashing, violent eyes; the wiry, neat little Mate with his mobile puckered face framing a short carroty moustache; most disconcerting of all, the mountainous third hand, slumped over the table, chin on hands, so that the dull pale-blue eyes, the slack-hanging jaw and the un-moving pasty features were thrust within three feet of Jim.
" 'Ad enough, sir?" said Dukey, when his plate was at last emptied. "Glass o' whisky? It ain't often we has company aboard. You just have whatsomever you fancy. Smoke? I got a new clay somewhere you could have. No? Well, have a chaw. Take a bite off my plug here," and he produced the remains of a cake of black chewing-tobacco from his pocket, politely brushing off the dust and fluff with a tarry hand.
This, too, Jim declined hastily and apologetically. Dukey replaced it, gave a deeply cunning wink in Bert's direction, spread his elbows among the greasy litter of the meal, fixed Jim with a penetrating stare, and began: "Now then, sir, you know as you're among friends here, what'll help you all they can. And you're going to need all the help you can git, from what I can see. Only o' course, there's a bit of... of... What's the blessed word I want, Bert?"
"Financial."
"That's right — a bit of financial arranging to do first — just between friends, o' course, and taking account of all the risks run, and all such things as that..."
Jim sat looking in utter bewilderment from one face to the other. "I've no idea what you're getting at," he said, uneasy fear beginning to creep through him.
The Skipper's face darkened and he spoke sarcastically. The pretence of friendship and respect had vanished from his voice: " 'Aven't you, now? Aven't you? Well, would you mind very kindly showing us the envelope you got in your left-'and coat-pocket?"
Chapter XI
Jim simply looked puzzled as he took out the envelope; but as he held it to draw out the papers, the jewellery poured out on to the dirty boards of the table, and every scrap of colour drained away from his face, leaving it a sickly yellow. His hands trembled violently and uncontrollably, and he looked up slowly to stare into the sneering face in front of him.
Dukey reached down to the deck beside him and dumped two full jingling money-bags on the table, carelessly spilling out a flow of gold. "And then there's this little lot you forgot about," he said.
Jim sank his sweating face into his hands and looked long and silently at the fantastic wealth piled in front of him. His words came at last, stammering and incoherent: "I don't understand, Mr Smith... I just... I don't know anything about it... Really... I know it must seem queer to you..."
There was a bellow of harsh laughter in the tiny stuffy cabin, and Dukey said: "Queer? It ain't queer at all to me. All I know is you're a crafty young beggar, acting so flaming innocent." He turned to Bert, and doubled him up with a grotesque imitation of Jim's speech and manner: " 'Reely, Mister Smith, sir, reely!' "
"Jordan!" said Jim suddenly, as the idea dropped like a pebble into the whirlpool of his mind. The laughter stopped abruptly: had Jim looked up he would have seen the Skipper and the Mate exchange a look full of meaning. "That's who it must have been —Jordan. He was a seaman on the Sardis. Come to that he said he knew you."
Dukey was looking troubled and undecided at this unexpected turn of events. He was about to speak again when Bert leapt to his feet, holding up a finger for silence: " 'Ark! Ain't that someone creeping about on deck? Let's have a look, Skipper! Shiner, stop here." In an instant the two men had shot up the short ladder to the deck. So dazed was he, Jim scarcely noticed their sudden bolt.
Groping for'ard after the retreating figure of his Mate, Dukey was puzzled and irritated: "What you on about, mate ? There ain't no one up here."
"Course there ain't, Dukey, 'course there ain't. I just wanted a word with you in private, like. This Jordan business — that must be Ern Jordan — you know, that big feller from Island Wall. Dark chavvy. I heard he'd gone up north somewheres."
"Ah, could be him — unless this old boy's making it up."
"What, him?" said Bert contemptuously. "He's too blooming green. When he seen them sparklers he didn't know which way up he was. Besides, how could he make up the right name?"
"See what you mean, Bert. Still..."
"Look, Skipper: say Ern Jordan and old mooshti below there was left alone on a wreck. Which one do you reckon would be most likely to help himself to stuff like that?"
"Well, Ern, I suppose. But still, you know..."
"Right. Now, would he let on about it to this little half-baked officer? Eh?"