"You the master of this ship?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," said Wicks. "Trent is my name, and this is
the FLYING SCUD of Hull."
"You seem to have got into a mess," said the officer.
"If you'll step aft with me here, I'll tell you all
there is of it," said Wicks.
"Why, man, you're shaking!" cried the officer.
"So would you, perhaps, if you had been in the same
berth," returned Wicks; and he told the whole story of
the rotten water, the long calm, the squall, the seamen
drowned, glibly and hotly, talking, with his head in
the lion's mouth, like one pleading in the dock. I
heard the same tale from the same narrator in the
saloon in San Francisco; and even then his bearing
filled me with suspicion. But the officer was no
observer.
"Well, the captain is in no end of a hurry," said he;
"but I was instructed to give you all the assistance in
my power, and signal back for another boat if more
hands were necessary. What can I do for you?"
"O, we won't keep you no time," replied Wicks cheerily.
"We're all ready, bless you--men's chests, chronometer,
papers, and all.
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