“Fishing, eh?” said the mate. “Well, good luck to you! Come, we shan’t look upon you as an invalid now.”
“Lie back in the chair a bit,” said Poole, who was watching his companion anxiously.
“What for?”
“I thought perhaps you might feel a little faint.”
“Oh no, that’s all gone off,” cried the boy, drawing a deep long breath, as he eagerly looked round the deck and up at the rigging of the smart schooner, whose raking taper masts and white canvas gave her quite the look of a yacht.
There was a look of wonder in the boy’s eyes as he noted the trimness and perfection of all round, as well as the smartness of the crew, whose aspect suggested the truth, namely, that they had had their training on board some man-of-war.
From craft and crew the boy’s eyes wandered round over the sea, sweeping the horizon, as he revelled in the soft pure air and the glorious light.
“How beautiful it seems,” he said, half aloud, “after being shut up so long below.”
“Come, that’s a good sign,” said Poole cheerily.
“What’s a good sign?” was the sharp reply.