"Mr. Johnson, you've done most justice to my viands, I think. Perhaps you
will join us."
The harbor master became purple in the face. He had in fact been eating
and drinking with great gusto, taking advantage of the preoccupation of
the company to insure that the excellent fare should not be wasted. He
rose hurriedly and, with a sheepish look that scarcely fitted his
cheerful features, followed his sarcastic host to the veranda. All the
guests save Mr. Merriman accompanied Mr. Bourchier.
"They all want to talk shop; this expedition against the Pirate," said
Mr. Merriman. "You and I can have a little chat."
Desmond was attracted by the open face of his new acquaintance, slightly
disfigured, as he noticed, by a long scar on the left temple.
"You're plucky and lucky," continued Merriman, "and in spite of what Mr.
Clive calls your bad start in bowling me over, you'll do well."
His face clouded as he went on.
"That man Diggle: why should he have sold you to the Pirate: what had he
against you?"
"I can not imagine, sir."
"You are lucky to have escaped him, as Mr. Clive said. I think--yes, I
will tell you about him. His name is not Diggle; it is Simon Peloti. He
is a nephew of Sir Willoughby's. His mother married a Greek, against her
brother's wish; the man died when the child was a year old. As a boy
Peloti was as charming a little fellow as one could wish: handsome, high
spirited, clever. He did well at school, and afterwards at Cambridge: won
a fellowship there.
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