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Slipping through the hatch, the cook drew a great breath and sat him down by the table. ‘‘She was the Blue Friggat, I hear, and seven weeks from Virginia — God rest the souls of them who went down in her!”

“From Virginia!” quoth Martin. ‘‘Hither th’ art gulled, in truth, or th’ art the very prince of liars. From Virginia! Ho ho!” And Martin laughed loud and long.

Now it was for such a moment that Philip Marsham was waiting, nor had he doubted the moment would come. For although Martin had gone apart with the men who had come from the foundered ship, the fellow’s head, which was larger than most heads, could never keep three ideas in flourish at the same time. To learn what game was in the wind there was need only to keep close at Martin’s heels until his blunders should disclose his secrets.

“The Devil take thee, thou alehouse dog!” the cook cried in a thick, wheezy voice. ‘‘Did not the boy bring me word straight when he came down for a can of boiling water with which this Captain Jordan would prepare a wondrous drink for Captain Candle?”

"And did not I part with this Captain Jordan not — Wow-ouch!” With a yell Martin tipped back in his chair and went over. Crawling on his feet, he put on a long face and rubbed his head and hurled a flood of oaths at the sailor beside him, a small man and round like an apple, whe went among his fellows — for he was one of those the Rose of Devon had rescued — by the name of Harry Malcolm.

“Nay,” the little round man very quietly replied, ‘‘I fear you not, for all your bluster. Put your hand on your tongue, fellow, and see if you cannot hold it. I had not intended to tip you over. It was done casually.”