The jolly Capt.  Sparhawk was endeavoring, to the best of his abilities, to do the honors of his vessel, quite unabashed by the presence of either Dudley or Sir Christopher.

“What will ye have to drink, my hearties?” he cried, slapping one of the biggest Indians on the shoulder, who merely turned round and stared at the questioner.  “To you, gentlemen,” he said, addressing Dudley and the Knight, “I can offer some of Mounseer’s, or Don Spaniard’s wine, though to my liking, your Rosa Solis is the only drink fit for a man; and I will wager the good ship Rule Britannia against a cock boat that these devils will say so too.”

“There is no need,” said Dudley, roughly.  “It were to obscure the little intellect these savages have, with that which serves no purpose, save to convert them into brutes.”

The Knight’s reply was more courteous.

“At another time, worthy Captain, it were a pleasure to accept thine invitation, but bethink thee that it is early in the day.”

“It is near upon twelve,” answered the Captain, looking at the sun, “or I never squinted through a quadrant; and may it please ye, Governor, wont ye let the red skins speak for themselves?”

“Nay,” said Dudley, “so long as they are within my charge, nothing stronger than water shall pass their lips.”

“But,” persisted the Captain, “if all I hear on shore be true, I take it ye are trying to drive a bargain with them imps.  Now, have ye never noticed that the best time to trade with a man is when half a dozen glasses have warmed his heart?”

“Peace,” said Dudley, “no more of this.  We came to see the ship and not to trespass on thy mistaken hospitality.”

“The lubberly milksop!” muttered the Captain betwixt his teeth.  “But what,” he added aloud, “are the red skins looking at so sharp out to sea?”

While this conversation had been going on, the attention of the savages had been arrested by an object floating on the water.  It rose and fell on the heaving sea, at one moment visible, and at the next hid from view.  At first it had been impossible to say what it was.  It might be a spar, or plank, or any part of a shipwrecked vessel.  The tide was coming in, and the object became more and more distinct, until an old sailor, whose experienced eyes had also been attracted sea-ward, exclaimed,

“Captain, I’m a green hand, and never weathered the Cape, if there ben’t a man lashed on yon spar.”

“By St. George’s cross, but I believe thou art right, Dick Spritsail,” cried the Captain.  “It’s some poor fellow, I warrant me, whose ship has gone down, and who made a raft to try his luck.  Johnny Shark, do ye see, is no pleasant customer to become acquainted with, and so he took a venture on the spar for a Christian burial, instead of making Jonah’s viage.”

“It’s no Christian,” replied Dick, “unless the waters in these latitudes have the faculty to turn a man black.”