It was absurd to suppose that the strange ravings of the second mate had
had an effect on me. "Hanged! Pirates!" Was Carlos really a pirate, or
Castro, his humble friend? It was vile of me to suspect Carlos. A couple
of men, meeting by the scuttle, began to talk loudly, every word coming
plainly to my ears in the stillness of my misery, and the large deserted
steerage. One of them, new from home, was asking questions. Another
answered:

"Oh, I lost half a seroon the last voyage--the old thing."

"Haven't they routed out the scoundrels yet?" the other asked.

The first man lowered his voice. I caught only that "the admiral was an
old fool--no good for this job. He's found out the name of the place the
pirates come from--Rio Medio. That's the place, only he can't get in at
it with his three-deckers. You saw his flagship?"

Rio Medio was the name of the town to which Carlos was going--which his
uncle owned. They moved away from above.

What was I to believe? What could this mean? But the second mate's,
"Scoot, young man," seemed to come to my ears like the blast of a
trumpet. I became suddenly intensely anxious to find Macdonald--to see
no more of Carlos.

From above came suddenly a gruff voice in Spanish. "Señor, it would be a
great folly."

Tomas Castro was descending the ladder gingerly. He was coming to fetch