The Iron Pirate by Max Pemberton

We dined that night in the saloon upon the deck, a commodious place lighted by electricity, and in every way luxuriously fitted. The walls of it were panelled in white and gold, and were covered with curious designs, old heroes fighting, old gods drawn by lions at their chariots; Bacchantes revelling, Jason seeking the fleece in a golden barque; Orestes fleeing the Furies. The long seats were covered in leather of a deep crimson, and there was a small piano, with many other appointments that were significant. The dinner itself was admirably served, and was partaken of by the deaf-and-dumb engineer, by the doctor, the Scotsman, and myself. We were waited on by a couple of negroes; and when the meats were removed we went above to an exquisitely-furnished little smoking-room, and there drank rich brown coffee and enjoyed some very fine cigars. I was all ears then to learn, if I could, what was the destination of the ship; and I found that Black talked without reserve before me, knowing well that I could do him no injury. He relied mostly on the doctor for advice, and discussed everything with him in the best of tempers.

"My plan is this," he said: "we're short of oil, and Karl here is beginning to get uneasy. I shall knock over a couple of whalers in these seas, and fill the tanks. Then, as they're looking for us in mid-Atlantic, we'll get south of Madeira, and run against two or three of the big ones making for Rio or Buenos Ayres. We shall pick up a good bit of money; and it'll be a month before they get on our course that way, for I mean to let 'em down light when it's not a case of saving our own skin."