“Isn’t it rough, then?”
“Man, we’re just in the Channel, with a cross current and the apology for a ripple, but this devil of a sawn-off scaffold-pole just wallows in it like a porpoise. Come up on deck, and you’ll blush with shame to think you should have gone under to such little waves, scarce big enough to wet the frills of a Brighton beach-wader.”
As if to belie this imputation of mildness, a sea came on board with a crash and rushed along the deck with an angry swirl, making noise enough to spur Frank on to make an effort.
“That’s right,” said Webster, taking him by the arm. “Now come and have a nip and a bite.” Together they rolled out of the cabin and down the alley to the officers’ box, where Hume duly swallowed a stiff glass of grog, and was suited with a shiny covering of oilskin overalls. Then, holding on to anything that came handy, they clambered on deck, where the keen morning air very soon dispelled the nausea contracted in the stuffy cabin.
It was a brilliant morning, with wisps of wind-lashed clouds scurrying across the clear blue sky, and a buoyant property in the salt-laden air that brightened the eyes. It had brought a flush to the cheeks of the lady, whose figure, clad in oils, had been the first thing to catch and hold Frank’s gaze. She stood on the low bridge, holding with both hands to the rail, her feet braced and her body bending to the dips and roll of the steamer with a grace that even the heavy tarpaulin could not hide. The spray which came aft in a white and gleaming drizzle glistened on her covering, and ever and again with a low laugh she would bend her head to an unusually heavy gust of wet tossed up by the plunging bows of the steamer.
“Isn’t she a beauty!” growled Webster, brushing his hand across his eyes to wipe away the drops.
“She is, indeed!” murmured Frank. “May I ask who she is?”
Webster followed his companion’s gaze, and led him forward. “I’m not talking of her,” he said, dropping his voice; “and you’d best leave her out of your thoughts, young fellow. It’s this craft I mean; this narrow-gutted rib of a steel monument, that’s fit for nothing but to be stuck on end with a lamp in its stern, when it would make a good lighthouse. Ugh! the brute. See her bury her nose in that sea like a pig in a mash-tub.”
This wave was a gentle swell of dull green, covered with a lace-like tracing of air bubbles in round patches of white, and the top of it fringed with a line of hissing foam. A lumbering coal-ship would have ridden over it without wetting her eye-holes, but this strange craft, with a snort, leapt into the very heart of it, tossing up a column of spray, while the divided sea swelled up to the gunwales and foamed along the side with ripping noise, and went aft in a swirl of eddying whirlpools.
“Tell me,” said Webster, flicking the wet from his sou’wester, “what sort of a ship she is.”