“Then will you get up?”
“Yes: all right. Does it rain?”
“No—lovely morning; you can see it is through that bit of skylight.”
Mike slipped out and began to dress.
“Wonder what they’ve been doing in the night?”
“Don’t know—don’t care,” said Vince, yawning. “Oh, how horrid it is to be boxed up here like a rabbit! Can hardly breathe, and perhaps he won’t let us out for hours. Here, Jacques, come and unfasten this door,” he said in a low, angry growl; and, seizing the handle, he was about to give the door a rough shake, when to the surprise of both it flew open.
“Hurrah!” cried Vince; and they were not long finishing dressing and hurrying on deck, to find that, whatever might have been done, the hatches were in their places, while a good-sized schooner was lying close by with her sails flapping, as were those of the lugger; for the sea was very smooth, save where the currents showed, and during the night they had been carried by one of these well back towards the island, whose north-east point lay about a couple of miles on their port bow.
“That’s an English schooner, for certain,” said Vince. “What is she?”
“The Shark” read Mike from her stern. “Looks as if she could sail better than the Belle-Marie.”
“Not she,” said Vince, with the tone of authority; “these long three-masted luggers can race through the water.”