"And so you sneaked out of Gheria and sailed this grab, eh? Well, you're a chip of the old block, and a credit to your old dad. I want to hear all about this. And you'll have to come ashore and see the governor." "It's very kind of you, Mr. Johnson, but really I can't appear before the governor in this rig." He glanced ruefully at his bare legs and feet and tattered garments. "True, you en't very shipshape, but we'll soon alter that. Ever use a razor?" "Not yet, sir," replied Desmond with a smile. "Thought not. Plenty of native barbers. You must get shaved. And I'll rig you up in a suit of some sort. You must see the governor at once, and no nonsense." "What about the grab, sir?" "Leave that to me. You've got a pretty mixed crew, I see. All escaped prisoners, too?" "All but four." "And not one of 'em to be trusted, I'll swear. Well, I'll put a crew aboard to take charge. Come along; there's no time to lose. Colonel Clive goes to bed early." "Colonel Clive! Is he here?" "Yes; arrived from home two days ago. Ah! that reminds me; you're a Shropshire lad; so's he; do you know him?" "No, sir; I've seen him; I--I--" Desmond stammered, remembering his unfortunate encounter with Clive in Billiter Street. "Well, well," said the harbor master, with a quizzical look; "you'll see him again. Come along." Desmond accompanied Mr. Johnson on shore. A crowd had gathered. There were Sepoys in turban, cabay {cloak}, and baggy drawers; bearded Arabs; Parsis in their square caps; and a various assortment of habitues of the shore--crimps, landsharks, badmashes {bad characters}, bunder {port} gangs. Seeing Desmond hold his nose at the all-prevailing stench of fish, Mr. Johnson laughed. "You'll soon get used to that," he said. "'Tis all fish oil and bummaloes {small fish the size of smelt, known when dried as 'Bombay duck'} in Bombay." Having sent a trustworthy crew on board the Tremukji, the harbor master led Desmond to his house near the docks. Here, while a native barber plied his dexterous razor on Desmond's cheeks and chin, Mr. Johnson searched through a miscellaneous hoard of clothes in one of his capacious presses for an outfit. He found garments that proved a reasonable fit, and Desmond, while dressing, gave a rapid sketch of his adventures since he left the prison shed in Gheria. "My wigs, but you've had a time of it. Mutiny and all! Dash my buttons, here's a tale for the ladies! Let me look at you. Yes, you'll do now, and faith you're a pretty fellow. And Dick Burke's son! You've got his nose to a T; no nonsense about that. Now you're ready to make your bow to Mr. Bourchier. He's been a coursing match with Colonel Clive and Mr. Watson {it was customary to use the title Mr. in speaking to or of both naval and military officers} up Malabar Hill, and we'll catch him before he sits down to supper. "How do you feel inside, by the way? Ready for a decent meal after the Pirate's pig's wash, eh?"