At the heel of the bowsprit, however, leaning out over the bow, he dimly descried a figure—some poor passenger of the second class, or “deck” sort, an exile who was looking forward for an American port as ardently as Philip had regretted that of France.
For a long while he watched him till the chill morning breeze struck him. He thought of turning in, although the stranger only gazed on the dawning white.
“Up early, captain?” he said, seeing that worthy approach.
“Some of your passengers have beaten you this time.”
“You! but military officers are used to being up at all hours.”
“Oh, not me alone,” replied Philip. “Look at that deep dreamer; a passenger also?”
The Captain looked and was surprised.
“Who is he?” asked the Frenchman.
“Oh, a trader,” answered Paul Jones, embarrassed.