“Oh! Well, rather hastily, sir,” said the chief officer drily. “But that’s nothing, sir. I’m afraid I was not very polite to you. I was horribly disappointed, sir.”
“Naturally,” the captain cried excitedly. “Here we are, getting well within range of the islands where we know this wretched traffic is carried on, where the plantations are cultivated by the unfortunate blacks, and we seem bound to encounter a slaver, and yet the days pass on and we prove to be hunting a will-o’-the-wisp.”
“Yes, sir, it is maddening,” replied the lieutenant. “Day after day I have swept the offing, feeling certain that fate would favour us by letting the sloop come up with that Yankee, or with one of his kidney; but disappointment is always the result.”
“Yes, Mr Anderson,” cried the captain; “always the result. Never mind,” he continued, speaking through his closely set teeth; “our turn will come one of these days.” And then with his telescope tightly nipped beneath his arm he would tramp up and down the quarter-deck, pausing now and then to focus his glass, take a peep through, close it again with a snap and renew his march.
“Look at him,” said Roberts, one bright morning, as the two lads stood together well forward, where they fondly hoped that they were quite out of their chief’s way.
“No, thank you, Dick,” was the response; “it isn’t safe. He’s just in one of his fits, ready to pounce upon any one who gives him a chance. Every one is getting afraid of him. I wish to goodness we could overtake something and have a chance of a prize.”
“Well, we must find something to do soon, lad. We’re right in amongst the islands, and we shall have to land and hunt out some nigger driver’s nest.”
“But we can’t do anything if we do. We daren’t interfere with any plantation where the blacks are employed.”
“No, I suppose not; but it would be a glorious change if we got orders to land at one of the islands and could pick up some news or another.”
“What sort of news?”