“Well, there’ve been plenty of chances to have a death,” Tom reminded him, “and yet there hasn’t been. Seems to me, if the bird wanted any one to die he’s missed some awful good opportunities.”
“Mebbe,” admitted old Lem. “But ye never can tell what fate has in store fer sailors. I been to sea nigh fifty year an’ I tell ye the more ye see the less ye knows.”
But despite their superstitions, the islanders sympathized most heartily with Captain Edwards and all wished him the best of luck and professed confidence in his finding whales and filling up with sperm oil. When the bark hoisted anchor and sailed from Tristan, one member of her company was left behind, for Sam declared his intention of waiting on the island for the yearly mail ship which would take him back to St. Helena.
Three days after the island had dropped below the horizon astern, the lookout on the Hector reported a steamer’s smoke ahead, and soon afterwards, the smudge of black was visible to those on deck.
“Can’t imagine what she is,” declared Captain Edwards. “We’re out of the track of merchant ships.”
“Maybe it’s a German raider,” suggested Jim. “Then Cap’n Pem would crow over us for scoffing at the bo’sun bird.”
Scarcely had he spoken when Mr. Kemp hailed them from the crosstrees.
“Warship, sir!” he shouted.
“Gosh, perhaps you’re right, Jim!” exclaimed Tom. “Say, wouldn’t that be the limit?”
“Jest erbout what I’d be expectin’ of,” declared Cap’n Pem. “Onluckiest cruise ever I seed. Reckon I’ll stick ter shore arter this.”