“I can’t take them,” cried the captain.
“Can’t take them! well, it’s very odd; but every ship refuses to take our letters. It’s very unkind; seamen should have a feeling for brother seamen, especially in distress. God knows, we wish to see our wives and families again; and it would be a matter of comfort to them if they only could hear from us.”
“I cannot take your letters—the saints preserve us!” replied the captain.
“We have been a long while out,” said the seaman, shaking his head.
“How long?” inquired the captain, not knowing what to say.
“We can’t tell; our almanack was blown overboard, and we have lost our reckoning. We never have our latitude exact now, for we cannot tell the sun’s declination for the right day.”
“Let me see your letters,” said Philip, advancing and taking them out of the seaman’s hands.
“They must not be touched!” screamed Schriften.
“Out, monster!” replied Philip; “who dares interfere with me?”
“Doomed—doomed—doomed!” shrieked Schriften, running up and down the deck, and then breaking into a wild fit of laughter.