“What’s that?”
Bart stood up and sheltered his eyes with his hand, so as to get a good view of a triangular piece of sail glistening white in the sunshine, far away, about the horizon line.
“There ain’t another vessel with a raking sail like that!” he cried. “I shaped that sail. Why, it is she!”
“Yes,” said Jack, after a long look across the dazzling blue sea, “it’s the schooner, Bart; and she’s coming here.”
The boat danced over the sparkling waves, and three hours after she was alongside the schooner, which was hove to—the wind being contrary—as soon as the boat was descried by those on board. Dinny was the foremost in the group waiting to lower down the falls, and in a few minutes the boat hung from the davits, and Jack gave a sharp look round as he stepped upon the deck.
“Why was the schooner not waiting?”
“Faix, the captain gave orders for sail to be made,” said Dinny, in a meaning tone; “and away we wint.”
“The captain!” said Jack, with a angry look in his eyes. “Where is the captain, then?”
“Sure,” cried Dinny, as a murmur ran through the group gathered on the deck; “sure, he’s in his cabin, having a slape.”
“It’s all over, Bart, my lad,” said Jack, bitterly. “What will you do—stop and serve under Captain Mazzard, or shall we go?”