Chapter XVII. And Pym

           “AndPym—poorPym?”

           Iturnedroundquickly.

           Hunthadspoken.Thisstrangepersonwasstandingmotionlessatalittledistance,gazingfixedlyatthehorizon.

           ItwassounusualtohearHunt’svoiceonboardtheschooner,thatthemen,whomtheunaccustomedsoundreached,drewnear,movedbycuriosity.Didnothisunexpectedinterventionpointto—Ihadapresentimentthatitdid—somewonderfulrevelation?

           AmovementofWest’shandsentthemenforward,leavingonlythemate,theboatswain,MartinHolt,thesailing-master,andHardy,withthecaptainandmyselfinthevicinityofHunt.Thecaptainapproachedandaddressedhim:

           “Whatdidyousay?”

           “Isaid,‘AndPym—poorPym.’“

           “Well,then,whatdoyoumeanbyrepeatingthenameofthemanwhoseperniciousadviceledmybrothertotheislandonwhichtheJanewaslost,thegreaterpartofhercrewwasmassacred,andwherewehavenotfoundevenoneleftofthosewhowerestillheresevenmonthsago?”

           Huntdidnotspeak.

           “Answer,Isay—answer!”criedthecaptain.

           Hunthesitated,notbecausehedidnotknowwhattosay,butfromacertaindifficultyinexpressinghisideas.Thelatterwerequiteclear,buthisspeechwasconfused,hiswordswereunconnected.Hehadacertainlanguageofhisownwhichsometimeswaspicturesque,andhispronunciationwasstronglymarkedbythehoarseaccentoftheIndiansoftheFarWest.

           “Yousee,”hesaid,“Idonotknowhowtotellthings.Mytonguestops.