“Worse and worse,” replied Jerry; “there’s nine inches water in the well.”
“Oh, my God!” cried Paul, who was not very au fait at nautical technicalities,—raising one eye up to heaven, while the other appeared to rest upon the bottle of brandy.
“But why don’t you turn in?” said Jerry: “we can go to the bottom just as comfortably in bed as anywhere else.”
“I agree with you,” replied Peter, who had often been at sea, and knew very well that all was right, by the two midshipmen coming off deck. “My mother prophesied that I never should die in my bed; but I’m determined that I will.”
“You had better turn in, Mr Paul,” said Seymour, kindly; “I’ll ring for the steward.”
Billy Pitt made his appearance. “By gad, gentlemen, the damned schooner under water.”
“Under water!” cried Paul, with dismay. The bottle was applied to his mouth, as if he was determined to leave as little room as possible for the element which he expected instantaneously to be struggling in.
With the assistance of Billy, Paul was placed in one of the standing bed-places at the side of the cabin. Jerry put his brandy-bottle at the side of his pillow—kindly informing him that he would have an opportunity of taking a few more swigs before he went down, for the water was only up to her bends at present. Peter was already in the cot next to him, and Seymour and Jerry turned in, without taking off their clothes, in Courtenay’s bed on the other side of the cabin. Before they had fallen asleep, they heard Paul cry out, “Peter! Peter!”
“Well, what do you want?”
“Do you think there are any hopes?”