We had told our two boatmen to pull us out to the Pied Witch!  They started with great resolution, then rested on their oars.

“The Pied Witch, zurr?” asked one politely; “an’ which may her be?”

That’s the West countryman all over!  Never say you “nay,” never lose an opportunity, never own he doesn’t know, or can’t do anything —­independence, amiability, and an eye to the main chance.  We mentioned Pearse’s name.

“Capt’n Zach’ry Pearse!” They exchanged a look half-amused, half-admiring.

“The Zunflaower, yu mane.  That’s her.  Zunflaower, ahoy!” As we mounted the steamer’s black side I heard one say: 

“Pied Witch!  A pra-aper name that—­a dandy name for her!” They laughed as they made fast.

The mate of the Sunflower, or Pied Witch, or whatever she was called, met us—­a tall young fellow in his shirtsleeves, tanned to the roots of his hair, with sinewy, tattooed arms, and grey eyes, charred round the rims from staring at weather.

“The skipper is on board,” he said.  “We’re rather busy, as you see.  Get on with that, you sea-cooks,” he bawled at two fellows who were doing nothing.  All over the ship, men were hauling, splicing, and stowing cargo.

“To-day’s Friday:  we’re off on Wednesday with any luck.  Will you come this way?” He led us down the companion to a dark hole which he called the saloon.  “Names?  What! are you Mr. Treffry?  Then we’re partners!” A schoolboy’s glee came on his face.

“Look here!” he said; “I can show you something,” and he unlocked the door of a cabin.  There appeared to be nothing in it but a huge piece of tarpaulin, which depended, bulging, from the topmost bunk.  He pulled it up.  The lower bunk had been removed, and in its place was the ugly body of a dismounted Gatling gun.

“Got six of them,” he whispered, with unholy mystery, through which his native frankness gaped out.  “Worth their weight in gold out there just now, the skipper says.  Got a heap of rifles, too, and lots of ammunition.  He’s given me a share.  This is better than the P. and O., and playing deck cricket with the passengers.  I’d made up my mind already to chuck that, and go in for plantin’ sugar, when I ran across the skipper.  Wonderful chap, the skipper!  I’ll go and tell him.  He’s been out all night; only came aboard at four bells; having a nap now, but he won’t mind that for you.”

Off he went.  I wondered what there was in Zachary Pearse to attract a youngster of this sort; one of the customary twelve children of some country parson, no doubt-burning to shoot a few niggers, and for ever frank and youthful.

He came back with his hands full of bottles.

“What’ll you drink?  The skipper’ll be here in a jiffy.  Excuse my goin’ on deck.  We’re so busy.”

And in five minutes Zachary Pearse did come.  He made no attempt to shake hands, for which I respected him.  His face looked worn, and more defiant than usual.