“Hang it all, Billy Waters,” he said one day, after a week’s sailing up and down doing nothing more exciting than chasing fishing-luggers and boarding trading brigs and schooners, “I do wish something would turn up.”
“If something real don’t turn up, sir,” said the gunner, “I shall be certain to fire across the bows of a ship, from its always being my habit, sir, and never hit a mark when I want it.”
“Here, hi! hail that fishing-boat,” he said; “I’ve fished till I’m tired, and can’t catch anything; perhaps we can get something of him.”
He pointed to a little boat with a tiny sail, steered by its crew of one man by means of an oar. The boat had been hanging about for some time after pulling off from the shore, and its owner was evidently fishing, but with what result the crew of the cutter could not tell.
“He don’t want no hailing, sir; he’s hailing of us,” said Billy.
It was plain enough that the man was manoeuvring his cockleshell about, so as to get the cutter between it and the shore, and with pleasant visions in his mind of a lobster, crab, or some other fish to vary the monotony of the salt beef and pork, of which they had, in Hilary’s thinking, far too much, he leaned over the side till the man allowed his boat to drift close up.
“Heave us a rope,” he said. “Got any fish?”
“Yes. I want to see the captain.”
“What for?”
“You’ll see. I want the captain. Are you him?”