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“Right, sir,” said Ellison, though I could see that he regretted his fruit. “You’ll find them sweet!”

“And this fan,” said the midshipman, taking it from Ellison’s hand. “Will you give it to me?”

“I cannot, sir. It comes from a girl. You’ve a taio of your own.”

“He pays me no attention these days. What have you there?”

“A bundle of tapa cloth.”

Hallet stooped to feel the thick bundle and gave the seaman an evil smile. “It feels uncommonly like a sucking pig. Shall I call Mr. Samuel?” Ellison flushed and the other went on, without giving him time to reply, “See here! A bargain—the fan’s mine, and I say nothing about the pig.”

Without a word, the young seaman snatched up his bundle and strode off to the forecastle in a rage, leaving the fan in his superior’s hands. I was about to utter angry words when Samuel, the captain’s clerk, walked aft. Hallet stopped him. “Do you want a bit of tender pork?” he asked in a low voice. “Then go to the forecastle. I suspect that Ellison has a sucking pig wrapped up in a bale of the Indian cloth!” Samuel gave him a nod and a knowing leer, and passed. I stepped forward.