Frank, standing wide on the slippery deck, cast his eyes fore and aft with growing wonder at the long, narrow shape of her, at the inward slope of her heavy bulwarks, at the wide, short funnels and sharp bows.
“I can’t liken her to anything but a wasp or a shark,” said he, “there’s such a vicious air about her.”
“Ay, she carries a sting in her tail and a devilish set of teeth. She’s ugly as a shark, and as narrow and vicious as a wasp. Well, what is she?”
“She’s a deuced bad sea boat, anyhow,” said Frank, as the deck suddenly sloped away at a fearful angle. “Is she a yacht?”
“You’ve hit it first shot. She’s a yacht—that’s what she is—a nice pleasure-boat for ladies and children, with engines strong enough to get twenty-seven knots out of her, and steel frame like a man-o’-war. What’s that you’re leaning against?”
“A ship’s boat, I suppose, covered with tarpaulin.”
“Right again, sir; that’s the yacht’s dinghy, fitted with velvet cushions. Take a peep.”
Frank looked under the tarpaulin, and saw the vast butt and machinery of a gun.
“That’s the yacht’s popgun, a four-inch quick-firing toy,” and Webster’s jolly face broke into a grin.
“She’s not a yacht, then?”