Through a porthole the lights of New York winked farewell to me. I was as frightened as a child by himself for the first time in the dark.
CHAPTER V
ABOARD THE BRIG
I woke with a ray of sunshine streaming across my face through the thick, greenish glass of a deadlight and an odd feeling of contentment. Mice were cheeping in the paneling at my elbow; the timbers and planking of the hull were groaning and snorting; there was a soothing swissh-ssh of divided waters; and the brig herself was swaying easily in a following sea.
Corlaer was sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion, and I was at pains not to disturb him as I slipped to the floor, opened the door and entered the main cabin. This was deserted save for the boy Darby, who was curled up on the seat under the stern windows, peering out at the brig's creamy wake. He heard the door close after me and swiveled round at once, landing lightly on his feet as if he had been to sea for years.
"Och, Master Bob," says he, "I thought ye'd never wake up. Ah, it's the grand, grand day. And do ye smell the brine in the air? It makes the toes of your two feet dance, whether ye will or no—troth, it does."
'Twas impossible to nourish resentment against the boy for his betrayal of us. He was as naturally lawless and unmoral as a young wolf, but I could not resist a jeer at his recent transformation.
"And how does it seem to be a pirate, Darby?"
"Oh, fine! Sure, I always knew I wasn't intended for a bond-boy to run errands and carry bales. Ah, it's the grand life, Master Bob! They tell me himself—" he jerked his thumb toward the door of a stateroom opposite that in which Peter and I were berthed—"is own uncle to ye, and some day, if ye choose, ye can be as great as him. Faith, and I know what my choice would be!"
"Is it your idea that pirates never work?" I inquired.