Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 2).djvu/373

 the following morning I repaired on board the Biddy McDougal as she lay in the river off the town. On gaining the deck I perceived a number of seamen employed upon the ground tackle, and I seemed to catch sight of the man who had called himself "Wilson" and "captain" standing in the ship's head, and gazing down over the bows; but his face was but partially revealed, and the shadow of his wide straw hat darkened and obscured the little of his countenance that was visible. A man stood near the gangway, clothed in blue serge with a white cover to his naval cap. He was a sullen-looking fellow, with a roll of white beard and whiskers running down his cheeks under his throat, a sour mouth, and a dry twist of face which, rounding into one eye, made it look smaller than the other. As I had not yet met the mate of the ship, I supposed that this man might be that officer, and, approaching him, I said:—

"Are you the mate?"

"No," he answered, leisurely bringing his eyes down from aloft, and fastening them upon me. "I am neither the mate, nor the man that cooks the mate."

"Who are you?" said I, nettled by his brusque manner.

"Who are you, first of all?" he answered.

"I am a passenger going home in the Biddy McDougal."

His manner changed. "I ask your pardon," said he; "I took you to be another gent; someone I don't want to have nothing more to say to. You're amazingly like him, surely."

"Are you the mate?" said I.

"No, sir," he replied, "I am the captain."

I eyed him steadfastly, and then looked round the deck, scarcely knowing as yet but that I had taken my passage aboard a ship full of lunatics.

"The captain?" I cried.

"Ay," he answered, with an emphatic nod, "Captain Parfitt."

"Pray, how many captains does this ship carry?" said I, again looking round the deck in search of any signs of old Captain Punch.

"One only," said he, "and I'm that man."

"I have been aboard this vessel three times," said I, "and on each occasion have met with a new captain. The first time it was Captain Wilson—there he is," I exclaimed, pointing to the forecastle where the man Wilson who had called himself the master now stood looking towards me, and plainly visible. "Next it was Captain Timothy Punch, a gouty, red-faced man, who sat helpless in a chair on this quarter-deck. And now it is you."

A sour smile curled the man's lips.

"They haven't been quite above-board with you, sir," said he. "The long and short of it's this: Cap'n Punch was in charge during the outward voyage right enough; but he was took very bad with gout a month afore Rangoon was reached, and the command of the vessel was given