"Shiver my timbers! Belay there, whoever you be. Hey, maties! Stand by to repel boarders! They're entering by the ports."
"No, no! I'm a boy—I'm an American!" Jerry panted. "There's nobody else."
"A boy? Bless my bloomin' eyes." The grip relaxed, but the voice growled. "Wot d'you foul my hawser for, when I'm snugged under for the night, with storm anchors out?"
"I didn't mean to," Jerry stammered.
"Who are you, then? Wot's your rating? Answer quick, and no guff."
"I'm nobody 'special—I'm Jerry Cameron. I've run away from Vera Cruz."
"Under bare poles, too, by the feel of you. You're a bloody spy, eh?"
"No, I'm not," Jerry implored. "I'm an American, I told you."
"Where's the rest of your boarding crew?"
"There aren't any."
"Does your mother know you're out?"
"She's dead. So's my father."
"Now if you're one o' them young limbs o' drummer boys, playing a game on me"
"I'm not," Jerry declared.
"Wot do you want here?"
"I want to join the army."
"The army! Get out, then. Don't you go taking this for any landlubber mess. Avast with you! Port your helm and sheer off." And the clutch loosened.
"But where am I, please?" Jerry asked, bewildered.
"Wait till I put a half hitch on you and I'll tell
