“This man,” he began, nodding feebly at the corpse⁠—“O’Brien were his name⁠—a rank Irelander⁠—this man and me got the canvas on her, meaning for to sail her back. Well, he’s dead now, he is⁠—as dead as bilge; and who’s to sail this ship, I don’t see. Without I give you a hint, you ain’t that man, as far’s I can tell. Now, look here, you gives me food and drink, and a old scarf or ankercher to tie my wound up, you do; and I’ll tell you how to sail her; and that’s about square all round, I take it.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” says I; “I’m not going back to Captain Kidd’s anchorage. I mean to get into North Inlet, and beach her quietly there.”

“To be sure you did,” he cried. “Why, I ain’t sich an infernal lubber, after all. I can see, can’t I? I’ve tried my fling, I have, and I’ve lost, and it’s you has the wind of me. North Inlet? Why, I haven’t no ch’ice, not I. I’d help you sail her up to Execution Dock, by thunder! so I would.”