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Peabody remembered the British naval officers whom he had encountered often enough in the cafés of Valetta. Many of them spoke in a curious throaty manner which he had been given to understand was looked upon nowadays as the newest fashion in England, with the vowels broadened and the consonants disregarded. He thought for a moment of Hubbard, but Hubbard's South Carolinian speech had nothing British about it. He turned upon Jonathan.

"Go and find O'Brien for me. Master's mate--he'll be at the headsail sheets."

It was five long minutes before O'Brien came looming up on the quarterdeck; it was a pity that Jonathan had not yet familiarised himself with every part of the ship and every man on board.

"O'Brien, sir. Come to report."

O'Brien's voice had not lost the Irish in it, even though it was twenty years since he had sailed from Cork.

"Stay by me. I want you to hail for me when the time comes."

The night was clear although dark; the crescent moon, right down on the horizon, contributed almost no light, but the stars were bright. A ship could be seen at a couple of miles, certainly.