“Well, this is nice,” said Fitz. “The schooner was bad enough before; now it’s ten times worse.”
“Nonsense. See how we are skimming along. This is a new experience for you. You will see more fun with us in a month than you would in your old tea-kettle of a gunboat in twelve.”
“Phew!” ejaculated the skipper, coming up, straw hat in one hand, pocket-handkerchief in the other, and mopping his face. “This is rather warm work, Poole, my boy. Well, Mr Burnett, what do you think of blockade running for a change?”
“What do I think of it, sir?” said Fitz, who was still holding on tight to one of the ropes.
“Yes. Good as yachting, isn’t it?”
“Well, I don’t like it a bit, sir. I don’t call it seamanship.”
“Indeed, young gentleman! What do you call it, then?”
“Utter recklessness, sir.”
“Oh!” said the skipper. “Well, it is running it rather close, but you can’t do blockade running without. Not afraid, are you?”
“Oh, I don’t know about being afraid, sir, but I think that we shall have to take to the boats.”