“We shall go to Davy Jones, like a bullet.”
“Who is Davy Jones?”
“The Old One, you know—down below. Leastways you won't go there, miss; you will go aloft, and perhaps the skipper; but Davy will have me; so I won't give him a chance, if I can help it.”
Lucy cried.
“Where are we, Mr. Jack?”
“British Channel.”
“I know that; but whereabouts?”
“Heaven knows; and no doubt the skipper, he knows; but I don't. I am only a common sailor. Shall I hail the skipper? he will tell you.”
“No, no, no. He is so angry if we speak.”
“He won't be angry if you speak to him, miss,” said Jack, with a sly grin, that brought a faint color into Lucy's cheek; “you should have seen him, how anxious he was about you before we came alongside; and the moment that lubber went forward to dip the lug, says he, 'Jack, there will be mischief; up mainsail and run down to them. I have no confidence in that tall boy.' (He do seem a long, weedy, useless sort of lubber.) Lord bless you, miss, we luffed, and were running down to you long before you made the signal of distress with your little white flag.” Lucy's cheeks got redder. “No, miss, if the skipper speaks severe to you, Jack Painter is blind with one eye, and can't see with t'other.”