The next day it was a great deal hotter, for there was not a breath of air, and Tom came to me as I was hanging listlessly over the side, for I was too hot to stir.
“Say, Mas’r Harry,” he said, “isn’t this what they call being in the tropics?”
“Yes, Tom; this is the tropics.”
“Well, they’re hot tropics, and no mistake—out-and-out hot uns. It won’t get any warmer than this, will it?”
“Warmer, my lad?” said one of the sailors; “why, this is nothing to what it is sometimes. I’ve known it so hot that the fellows have been half-roasted, and when the skipper’s piped all hands to bathe in a lugsail overboard, to keep away the sharks, you’ve heard the lads sizzle as they jumped into the water.”
“They got quite red-hot, then?” said Tom quietly.
“Well, hardly red-hot, though they were mostly very red—more brown-hot, I should say.”
“Thanky,” said Tom. “Much obliged;” and the sailor went away chuckling.
“He thinks I believe him, Mas’r Harry,” said Tom quietly; “but I’m not quite such a fool as all that.”
“Oh! never mind their nonsense, Tom,” I said; “there are too many beautiful things to see, for us to pay heed to all that these fellows say.”