So Tim resigned himself to the situation, which so far pleased him, in that he should now enjoy a few more hours of his brother’s society.
After some hours towing the tug cast off, and they found themselves scudding down towards the channel under a fair breeze. Night was coming on, so the brothers turned in for a short sleep, intending to wake in good time for Tim to get away with the pilot: but when they came on deck again, at daylight the next morning, what a sight met their view! To their judgment they were far out in a tempestuous sea, whilst between them and the distant shore they descried what appeared to be a heap of furious foam-swept whirlpools.
After viewing this strange scene for a moment, Tim anxiously asked his brother whether he thought they could find the pilot; in vain they looked about for such a personage.
“But that’s the captain, no doubt,” said Mat, pointing out a weather-beaten man on the poop, and before he could be prevented, Tim had walked up to and commenced addressing the skipper with,—
“If you please, sir—”
“Don’t bother me,” answered the latter, without looking at him, “till I’m clear of Portland Race—get off the poop.”
“But I want to go ashore.”
“So you will,” said the captain in a tone which admitted of no further argument, “so you will, in about three months’ time, please the pigs—go.”
Following the direction of the captain’s eyes, Tim saw that they were fixed alternately on the whirlpools which had attracted the attention of his brother and himself, and the sails of his ship. Feeling that he had made a mistake, he returned dolefully to Mat, who was for’ard, saying,—
“It’s all up, I’m in for the whole journey.”