There was a brass carronade at the stern in plain view, and so mounted as to be swung inboard in case of necessity.  Its ugly muzzle could thus rake the deck fore and aft, but the presence of such a piece would create no suspicion in those days when every ship was armed for defense, and consequently no effort was made for its concealment.  I was busily at work on this bit of ordnance, when Estada came on deck for a moment.  After staring aloft, and about the horizon into the impenetrable mist, he joined LeVere at the port rail in a short earnest conversation.  As the two worthies parted the fellow chanced to observe me.  I caught the quick look of recognition in his eyes, but bent to my work as though indifferent to his presence, yet failed to escape easily.

“You must be a pretty tough bird, Gates,” he said roughly, “or I would have killed you last night—­I had the mind too.”

Something about his voice and manner led me to feel that, in spite of his roughness, he was not in bad humor.

“That would have been a mistake, sir,” I answered, straightening up, rag in hand, “for it would have cost you a good seaman.”

“Hoila! they are easily picked up; one, more or less, counts for little in these seas.”

He looked at me searchingly, for the first time perhaps, actually noting my features.  In spite of my dirty, disheveled appearance and the bruises disfiguring my face, this scrutiny must have aroused his curiosity.

“Why do you say that, my man?” he questioned sharply.  “You were before the mast and drifted aboard here because you were drunk—­isn’t that true?”

“Partially, yes.  It was drink that put me before the mast.”  I explained, rejoicing in his mood, and suddenly hoping such a statement might help my status aboard.  “Three years ago I was skipper on my own vessel.  It was Rum ruined me.”

“Saint Christopher!  Do you mean to say you can read charts, and take observations?”

I smiled, encouraged by his surprise, and the change in his tone.

“Yes, sir; I saw ten years’ service as mate.”

“What was your last ship?”

“The Bombay Castle, London to Hong Kong; I wrecked her off Cape Mendez in a fog.  I was drunk below, and it cost me my ticket.”

“You know West Indian waters?”

“Slightly; I made two voyages to Panama, and one to Havana.”

“And speak Spanish?”

“A little bit, sir, as you see; I learn languages easily.”

He stared straight into my face, but, without uttering another word, turned on his heel and went below.  Whether, or not, I had made an impression on the fellow I did not know.  His face was a mask perfectly concealing his thought.  That he had appeared interested enough to question me had in it a measure of encouragement.  He would surely remember, and sometime he might have occasion to make use of me.  At least I would no longer remain in his mind as a mere foremast hand