“What do you think yourself?”
“Well, sir, it has been blowing harder and harder ever since we came out, and very steady.”
“It will turn out one of those dry nor'easters, Jack.”
“I shouldn't wonder, sir. I wish she was cutter-rigged, sir. A boat has no business to be any other rig but cutter; there ought to be a nact o' parliam't against these outlandish rigs.”
“I don't know; I have seen wonders done with this lateen rig in the Pacific.”
“The lugger forereaches on us, sir.”
“A little, but, for all that, I am glad she is on board our craft; we have got more beam, and, if it comes to the worst, we can run. The lugger can't with her sharp stern. I'll go to the helm.”
Just as David was stepping aft to take the helm, a wave struck the boat hard on the weather bow, close to the gunwale, and sent a bucket of salt water flying all over him; he never turned his head even—took no more notice of it than a rock does when the sea spits at it. Lucy shrieked and crouched behind the tarpaulin. David took the helm, and, seeing Talboys white, said kindly: “Why don't you go forward, sir, and make yourself snug under the folksel deck? she is sure to wet us abaft before we can make the land.”
No. Talboys resisted his inclination and the deadly nausea that was creeping over him.
“Thank you, but I like to see what is going on; and” (with an heroic attempt at sea-slang) “I like a wet boat.”