small table, and, opposite him, was an empty chair in which Robert sat
deliberately, putting his elbows on the table, and staring into the hard
blue eyes.

"I'm Peter Smith," he said. "You remember me?"

There was a flicker of surprise in the Captain's face, but nothing more.

"Oh, yes, Peter," he said. "I know you, but I was not looking for you
just at this moment."

"But I'm here."

"Perhaps you're coming back to your duty, is that it? Well, I'm glad.
I've another ship now, and though you're a runaway seaman I can afford
to let bygones be bygones."

"I hope your vessel has changed her trade. I don't think I'd care to
sail again on a slaver."

"Always a particular sort of chap you were, Peter. It's asking a lot for
me to change the business of my ship to suit you."

"But not too much."

The conversation was carried on in an ordinary tone. Neither raised his
voice a particle. Nobody took any notice. His own comrades, engrossed in
lively talk, seemed to have forgotten Robert for the moment, and he felt
that he was master of the situation. Certainly the slaver would be more
uncomfortable than he.