“Irish horse?”

“Ay.  That’s our name for it.  ’Cos why?  Explain to the gen’lman, mateys.”

With a laugh the men began to chant—­
“Salt horse, salt horse, what brought you here? 
You’ve carried turf for many a year. 
From Dublin quay to Mallyack
You’ve carried turf upon your back.”

“That’s the why and wherefore of it,” added Bulger.  “Cooks call it salt beef, same as French mounseers don’t like the sound of taters an’ calls ’em pummy detair; but we calls it Irish horse, which we know the flavor.  Accordingly, notwithstandin’ an’ for that reason, if you axe the advice of an old salt, never you go to sea, matey.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said Desmond, with a smile, “because I expect to sail next Wednesday morning, high tide at five o’clock.”

“Binks and barnacles!  Be you a-goin’ to sail with us?”

“I hope so.”

“Billy come up!  You’ve got business out East, then?”

“Not yet, but I hope to have.  I’m going out as supercargo.”

“Oh!  As supercargo!”

Bulger winked at his companions, and a hoarse titter went the round of the table.

“Well,” continued Bulger, “the supercargo do have a better time of it than us poor chaps.  And what do Cap’n Barker say to you as supercargo, which you are very young, sir?”

“I don’t know Captain Barker.”

“Oho!  But I thought as how you brought a message from the captain?”

“Yes, but it came through Mr. Diggle.”

“Ah!  Mr. Diggle?”

“A friend of mine—­a friend of the captain.  He has arranged everything.”

“I believe you, matey.  He’s arranged everything.  Supercargo!  Well, to be sure!  Never a supercargo as I ever knowed but wanted a man to look arter him, fetch and carry for him, so to say.  How would I do, if I might make so bold?”

“Thanks,” said Desmond, smiling as he surveyed the man’s huge form.  “But I think Captain Barker might object to that.  You’d be of more use on deck, in spite of—­”

He paused, but his glance at the iron hook had not escaped Bulger’s observant eye.

“Spite of the curlin’ tongs, you’d say.  Bless you, spit it out; I en’t tender in my feelin’s.”

“Besides,” added Desmond, “I shall probably make use of the boy who has been attending to me at the Goat and Compasses—­a clever little black boy of Mr. Diggle’s.”

“Black boys be hanged!  I never knowed a Sambo as was any use on board ship.  They howls when they’re sick, and they’re allers sick, and never larns to tell a marlinspike from a belayin’ pin.”

“But Scipio isn’t one of that sort.  He’s never sick, Mr. Diggle says; they’ve been several voyages together, and Scipio knows a ship from stem to stern.”

“Scipio, which his name is?  Uncommon name, that.”

There was a new tone in Bulger’s voice, and he gave Desmond a keen and, as it seemed, a troubled look.