“Because her masts slope more than those do,” replied Syd, and then he felt how ignorant he was, and how old Strake would have told the nationality of a vessel “by the cut of her jib,” as he would have termed it. His musings were interrupted by Roylance.
“Yes, I think she’s a French ship,” he said. “Bound for Saint Jacques, evidently, and I dare say she’ll come by here.”
“Well, we can’t stop her,” said Syd, shortly, for he felt annoyed that his companion should know so much more of seafaring matters than he.
“No,” replied Roylance; “but she can stop us perhaps. I should not be surprised if she is coming on purpose; for the people, you see, must know we have taken possession of this rock, and that is why all shipping has kept away.”
“Perhaps so,” said Syd, a little more testily, for it was painful to be so ignorant. “Well, I suppose we can do nothing.”
“Do nothing? Well, you are at the head of affairs; but if it was my case I should go and have a word with the lieutenant, and take his advice.”
These were his words of wisdom, and Syd hurried down to the hospital and reported.
“And me a-lying here like a log,” muttered the boatswain.
“In all probability a French man-of-war come to see what we mean by settling down here. Well, Mr Belton,” said the lieutenant, “I do not suppose it means fighting; but, if I were you, I should get out my ammunition, and have it well up to the guns.”
“Why don’t you tell me to do it, sir?” cried Sydney, humbly.