“Said you had.”
“Pooh! Nonsense! My boy Rodd and I tried experiments to see how nasty we could make the spirits without being dangerous. There’s nothing there that would hurt a man; only you mustn’t tell them so.”
“Oh–h–h! That’s another pair of shoes, as the Frenchies say;” and the skipper went up on deck.
“Thick-head!” growled the doctor. “Did he fancy I was going to kill a man for meddling? Bah!”
“He did, uncle. He doesn’t know you yet.”
“Well, I suppose not, my boy, but I am beginning to think that we are getting to know the crew pretty well by heart. Well, all we want now is a favourable wind, then we will hoist our sailing flag; and then—off.”
“For how long, uncle?”
“Ah, that’s more than I can say, Rodd, my boy. We’ll see what luck we have, and how the stores last out. We’ll get started, and leave the rest.”
Two days later the start had been made, with everything as ready as the combined efforts of the doctor’s and Captain Chubb’s experience could contrive, and with his face all smiles Dr Robson stood beside Rodd, watching the receding shore as they, to use the skipper’s words, bowled down Channel.
“Good luck to us, Pickle, my boy!” cried the doctor. “It’s been a long weary time of preparation, but it has been worth it. We have got a splendid captain—a man in whom I can thoroughly trust, and a crew of as smart, handy, useful fellows as I could have wished for.”