“Only that she’s bearin’ up for the island, your honour, and it’s not often one of them comes here.”
“The seldomer the better,” said Luttrell, gloomily. “When the fellows find there are no grog-shops here, they turn to mischief, break down our fences, lop our trees, and make free with our potatoes. I’ll have to do one of these days what I have so often threatened—warn all these fellows off, and suffer none to land here.”
Perhaps the old pilot thought that other and very different feelings might at that moment have had the sway over him, for he looked away, and shook his head mournfully.
“She has a flag at the peak,” cried one of the men from the rock.
“She has what?” asked Luttrell, impatiently.
“She has the half-black, half-white ensign, your honour.”
“Your own flag at the peak,” said the pilot.
“More of their insolence, I suppose,” said Luttrell; “because they have a hamper or a parcel on board for me, perhaps.”
“I don’t think it’s that, Sir,” said the other, moodily.
“What is it, then?” cried he, harshly.