"Yes; there was no mistake about it; it was a real, good, earnest John
Bull knock-down thump; it put me in mind of Portsmouth on a pay
day--ugh!"
"Extremely touching," said Jack, smiling.
"Then, when I called him by his name Bill Stubbs, and asked what had
become of the sloop, he said that he knew nothing at all about the
sloop, and swore that he had never set his eyes on my figure-head
before, the varmint--ugh!"
"Odd," remarked Jack.
"Are you sure of your man?" inquired Fritz.
"But you say his name is Bill, whilst he declares his name is Bob."
"Aye, he has evidently been up to some mischief, and changed his
ticket."
"Then what conclusion do you draw from the affair."
"I am completely bewildered, and scarcely know what to think; perhaps
the crew has mutinied, and turned Captain Littlestone adrift on a
desert island. That is sometimes done. Perhaps--"
"It is no use perhapsing those sort of melancholy things," said Fritz;
"we may as well suppose, for the present, that Captain Littlestone is
safe, and that your friend has been put on shore for some
misdemeanour."
"May be, may be, Master Fritz; and I hope and trust it is so. But to
have an old comrade amongst us, who could give us all the information
we want, and yet not to be able to get a single thing out of him--"
"Except a punch in the ribs," suggested Jack.
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