“Sad, my boy?” said Sir John.
“No, it isn’t sad, because somehow, father, it makes me feel happy, and—and I can’t explain it, but I never felt that I cared to stand and look at the sea and sky like this before. It seems so grand and beautiful, and as if—as if—”
“The great book of Nature was being opened to you for the first time, my boy. Yes; this wonderful soft air, this glorious star-lit heaven, and the silence of the ocean through which we are gliding, impress me too in a way I cannot explain. But tell me now, my boy, are you sorry we came?”
“Sorry!” cried Jack excitedly, as he caught at his father’s arm. “No; glad.”
That night the melody of one of the old West-country ditties the men had sung in parts seemed to lull Jack Meadows to rest, and he slept one of those deep healthy slumbers which give us the feeling when we awake on a bright sunny morning, that a strange vigour is running through our veins, and that it is a good thing to live.
Chapter Fourteen.
Doctor Instow paints a picture—with his tongue.
A quick run with a favourable wind across to Colombo, a very brief stay, and then on again. There were baffling winds and a sharp storm, during which it was found necessary to get up steam, but the yacht was as good in foul weather as in fair, and to Jack’s great satisfaction he found that, in spite of the pitching and tossing of the vessel, he was not ill, but found a strange pleasure in being on deck in mackintosh and leggings, watching the yacht careen over and race through the foam. Every now and then a wave would appear gliding along like some huge bank of water, ready to roll over them and sweep the deck, but the well-trained hands at the wheel sent her racing up the watery slope, to hang poised for a few moments and then rush down again.