“And who is to sail the boat?” He added, “I am glad to see the rain. I hope it will still the wind; if it doesn't, we shall have to try something else, that is all.”
“Pray, when do you undertake to land us, Mr. Dodd?” inquired Mr. Talboys, superciliously.
“Well, sir, if it does not blow any harder, about eight bells.”
“Eight bells? Why, that means midnight,” exclaimed Talboys.
“Wind and tide both dead against us,” replied David, coolly.
“Oh, Mr. Dodd, tell me the truth: is there any danger?”
“Danger? Not that I see; but it is very uncomfortable, and unbecoming, for you to be beating to windward against the tide for so many hours, when you ought to be sitting on the sofa at home. However, next time you run out of port, I hope those that take charge of you will look to the almanac for the tide, and look to windward for the weather: Jack, the lugger lies nearer the wind than we do.
“A little, sir.”
“Will you take the helm a minute, Mr. Talboys? and you come forward and unbend this.” The two sailors put their heads together amidships, and spoke in an undertone. “The wind is rising with the rain instead of falling.”
“'Seems so, sir.”