The thought rather pleased me, largely because of its absurdity.  It was, in my case at least, so utterly false, and unjustifiable.  To the ordinary mind, indeed, any such connection would be practically unthinkable.  Even had I been wild enough to dream of such a thing, the gulf existing between myself and Dorothy Fairfax was far too deep and wide ever to be spanned.  I had before me twenty years of servitude, and an unknown future; nor could I even conceive the possibility of any such thought ever entering her mind.  The very opposite was what gave her courage to serve me.  I had no false conception as to this; no vagrant thought that her interest in me was any more than a passing fancy, born of sympathy, and a desire to aid.  Nevertheless, as she had thus already served me, I now owed her service in return, and here was the first call.  If conditions made it possible it was my plain duty to place myself between these two.  I felt no hatred toward the man, no desire to do him a personal injury; but I did dislike and distrust him.  This feeling was instinctive, and without the slightest reference to his seeking intimacy with the girl.  From the first moment I had looked upon his face there had been antagonism between us, a feeling of enmity.  Whether this arose from his appearance, or actions, I could not determine—­but the fellow was not my kind.

In the intensity of my feelings I must have unconsciously spoken aloud, for a shaggy head suddenly popped out from the berth beneath where I lay, and an interested voice asked solicitously: 

“Hy, thar; whut’s up, mate?  Sick agin?”

“No,” I answered, grinning rather guiltily, “just thinking, and letting loose a bit.  Did I disturb you?”

“Well, I reckon I wa’n’t exactly asleep,” he acknowledged, without withdrawing his head.  “Ye wus mutterin’ ‘way thar an’ not disturbin’ me none, till ye got ter talkin’ ’bout sum feller called Sanchez.  Then I sorter got a bit interested.  I know’d thet cuss onct,” and he spat, as though to thus better express his feelings.  “The damned ornary pirate.”

I laughed, my whole mental mood changed by this remark.

“It is not very likely we have the same party in mind, Haley.  You see Sanchez is a decidedly common name among Spaniards.  I’ve known two or three of that name myself.  You were not referring to anyone on board, were you?”

“I sure hope not,” he scratched his head, staring up at me through the dim light, wakefulness encouraging him to talk.  “They tell me ye are a sea-farin’ man.  Well, I wus a Deal fisher, but hev made a half dozen deep-sea v’y’ges.  Thet’s how I hed the damn luck ter meet up with this Sanchez I was a speakin’ ’bout.  He’s the only one ever I know’d.  I met up with him off the isle o’ Cuba.  Likely ’nough ye know the devil I mean?”

The question served to center my memory suddenly on a dim remembrance of the past.

“No, unless you refer to ‘Black Sanchez.’  I ’ve heard of him; were you ever in his hands?”