“I say, Mas’ Don, look ye there,” whispered Jem, as they sat together in the foretop. “If this don’t beat Bristol, I’m a Dutchman.”
“Beat Bristol!” said Don contemptuously; “why, it’s as different as can be.”
“Well, I dunno so much about that,” said Jem. “There’s that mountain yonder smoking puts one in mind of a factory chimney. And look yonder too!—there’s another one smoking ever so far off. I say, are those burning mountains?”
“I suppose so, unless it’s steam. But what a lovely place!”
There were orders for shortening sail given just then, and they had no more opportunity for talking during the next quarter of an hour, when, much closer in, they lay in the top once more, gazing eagerly at the glorious prospect of sea and sky, and verdant land and mountain. The vessel slowly rounded what appeared to be a headland, and in a short time the wind seemed to have dropped, and the sea to have grown calm. It was like entering a lovely lake; and as they went slowly on and on, it was to find that they were forging ahead in a perfect archipelago, with fresh beauties opening up each minute.
The land was deliciously green, and cut up into valley, hill, and mountain. One island they were passing sent forth into the clear sunny air a cloud of silvery steam, which floated slowly away, like a white ensign spread to welcome the newcomers from a civilised land. At their distance from the shore it was impossible to make out the individual trees, but there seemed to be clumps of noble pines some distance in, and the valleys were made ornamental with some kind of feathery growth.
“Well, all I’ve got to say, Mas’ Don, is this here—Singpore arn’t to be grumbled at, and China’s all very well, only hot; but if you and me’s going to say good-bye to sailoring, let’s do it here.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, Jem,” replied Don.
“Say, Mas’ Don, p’r’aps it arn’t for me, being a servant and you a young master, to make remarks.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Jem; we are both common sailors.”