“Too plainly, sir,” said the chief officer sadly.
For it was now broad daylight and the swift-looking schooner was gliding along apparently through the trees which covered a narrow spit of land.
“Hah!” said the captain quietly. “Yes, that’s it, Mr Anderson—our prize, and a beautiful morning for her to make her start for the West Indies. Bless that straightforward, timorous, modest American skipper! Do you know, Mr Anderson, I am strongly of opinion that he commands that craft and that he will find his way through some of the muddy creeks and channels of the mangrove forest back to where she will be waiting for him. Well, master, what do you think?” he continued, as that officer came up hurriedly. “Will the sloop lie over any further?”
“No, sir; that is stopped; but we are wedged in fast.”
“So I suppose. Well, Mr Thomson, it does not mean a wreck?”
“No, no, sir, nor any damage as far as I can say.”
“Damage, Mr Thomson,” said the captain, smiling at him pleasantly; “but it does, man; damage to our reputation—mine—Mr Anderson’s. But you were going to say something, to ask me some question.”
“Yes, sir; about taking steps to get the sloop out of the bed in which she lies.”
“Poor bird, yes; but you see no risk for the present?”
“Not the slightest, sir. The mud is so soft.”