He came on deck, just touched his hat, as if to brush away a fly, and, removing an enormous cigar from his mouth, said, "Wal, and so this is the _Springbok._ Spry little boat she is; how many knots can ye get out of her now? Not that I am curious."
"About twelve knots."
"And when the steam's off the bile, how many can you sail? Not that it is my business."
"Eight or nine. What _is_ your business?"
"Hum! You have been over _some_ water looking for that gal. Where do ye hail from last?"
"The Society Islands. Did you board me to hear me my catechism?"
"No, I am not one of your prying sort. Where are ye bound for now?"
"I am bound for Easter Island."
"Have you heard anything of the gal?"
"No."
"And when do ye expec' to go back to England as wise as ye came?"
"Never while the ship can swim," cried Moreland angrily, to hide his despondency from this stranger. "And now it is my turn, I think. What schooner is this? by whom commanded, and whither bound?"
"The _Julia Dodd;_ Joshua Fullalove; bound for Juan Fernandez with the raw material of civilization--look at the varmint skippin'--and a printing-press; an' that's the instrument of civilization, I rather think."
"Well, sir; and why in Heaven's name did you change your course?"
"Wal, I reckon I changed it--to tell you a lie."
"To tell us a lie?"
"Ay; the darnedest etarnal lie that ever came out of a man's mouth. Fust, there's an unknown island somewheres about. That's a kinder flourish beforehand. On that island there's an English gal wrecked."
Exclamations burst forth on every side at this.
"And she is so tarnation 'cute, she is flying ducks all over creation with a writing tied to their legs, telling the tale, and setting down the longitude. There, if that isn't a buster, I hope I may never live to tell another."
"God bless you, sir," cried the general. "Where is the island?"
"What island?"
"The island where my child is wrecked."
"What, are you the gal's father?" said Joshua, with a sudden touch of feeling.
"I am, sir. Pray withhold nothing from me you know."
"Why, cunule," said the Yankee, soothingly; "don't I tell you it's a buster? However, the lie is none o' mine, it's that old cuss Skinflint set it afloat; he is always pisoning these peaceful waters."
Rolleston asked eagerly who Skinflint was, and where he could be found.
"Wal, he is a sorter sea Jack-of-all-trades, etarnally cruising about to buy gratis--those he buys of call it stealing. Got a rotten old cutter, manned by his wife and fam'ly. They get coal out of me for fur, and sell the coal at double my price; they kill seals and dress the skins aboard; kill fish and salt 'em aboard. Ye know when that fam'ly is at sea by the smell that pervades the briny deep an' heralds their approach. Yesterday the air smelt awful. So I said to Vespasian here, 'I think that sea-skunk is out, for there's something a-pisoning the cerulean waves an' succumambient air.' We hadn't sailed not fifty miles more before we run agin him. Their clothes were drying all about the rigging. Hails me, the varmint does. Vesp and I, we work the printing-press together, an' so order him to looward, not to taint our Otaheitans, that stink of ile at home, but I had 'em biled before I'd buy 'em, an' now they're vilets.
