'
Good heavens! This was the strongest confirmation of Montesma's charge.
The man was a stupid man, an incapable man, a man to whose intelligence
and care human life should never be trusted. A fig for his honesty! What
would honesty be worth in a hurricane off the Chesil Beach? What would
honesty serve a ship spitted on the Jailors off Jersey? Montesma was
right. If the _Cayman_ was to make a trip to St. Malo she must be
navigated by competent men. Horace Smithson hated foreign sailors,
copper-faced ruffians, with flashing black eyes which seemed to threaten
murder, did you but say a rough word to them; sleek, raven-haired
scoundrels, with bowie-knives in their girdles, ready for mutiny. But,
after all, life is worth too much to be risked for a prejudice, a
sentiment.
Perhaps that St. Malo business might be avoided; and then there need be
no change in captain or crew. The yacht must be safe enough lying at
anchor in the roadstead. By-and-by, when the visitors had departed, and
Mr. Smithson was reposefully enjoying his tea by Lady Lesbia's side, he
approached the subject.
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