“You can go!” said the captain, motioning to the guide; then as Ortho neared the door he called out, “Avast a minute!” Ortho turned about. “You say you come from near Penzance. Well, did you run athwart a person by the name of Gish by any chance? Captain Jeremiah Gish? He was a Penzance man, I remember. Made a mint o’ money shipping ‘black-birds’ to the Plate River and retired home to Penzance, or so I’ve heard. Gish is the name, Jerry Gish.” Ortho gaped. Gish—Captain Jerry—he should think he did know him. He had been one of Teresa’s most ardent suitors at one time, and still hung after her, admired her gift of vituperation; had been in the Star Inn that night he had robbed her of the hundred pounds. Captain Jerry! They were always meeting at races and such-like; had made several disastrous bets with him. Old Jerry Gish! It sounded strange to hear that familiar name here among all these wild infidels, gave him an acute twinge of homesickness. “Well,” said the corsair captain, “never heard of him, I suppose?” Ortho recovered himself. “Indeed, sir, I know him very well.” The captain sat up. “You do?” Then with a snap: “How?” It flashed on Ortho that he must be careful. To disclose the circumstances under which he had hob-nobbed with Jerry Gish would be to give himself away. “How?” Ortho licked his lips. “He used to come to Cove a lot, sir. Was friendly like with the inn-keeper there. Was very gentlemanly with his money of an evening.” The captain sank back, his suspicions lulled. He laughed. “Free with the drink, mean you? Aye, I warrant old Jerry would be that—ha, ha!” He sat smiling at recollections, drumming his short fingers on the table. Some flying spray heads rattled on the stern windows. The brass lamp swung back and forth, its shadow swimming with it up and down the floor. The watchkeeper muttered in his sleep. Outside the wind moaned. The captain looked up. “Used to be a shipmate of mine, Jerry—when we were boys. Many a game we’ve played. Did y’ ever hear him tell a story?” “Often, sir.” “You did, did you—spins a good yarn, Jerry—none better. Ever hear him tell of what we did to that old nigger woman in Port o’ Spain? MacBride’s my name, Ben MacBride. Ever hear it?” “Yes, I believe I did, sir.” “That’s a good yarn that, eh? My God, she screeched, ha, ha!” Tears trickled out of his eyes at the memory. “Told you a good few yarns, I expect?” “Yes, sir, many.” “Remember ’em?” “I think so, sir.” “Do you? Hum-hurr!” He looked at Ortho again, seemed to be considering. “Do you?—ah, hem! Yes, very good. Well, you must go now. Time to snug down. Ahmed!” The guide stood to attention, received some instructions in Arabic and led Ortho away. At the galley door he stopped, went inside, and came out bearing a lump of meat and a small cake which he thrust on Ortho, and made motions to show that it was by the captain’s orders. Three minutes later he was shackled down again. “How did you fare?” the Brixham man grunted drowsily.