“You can sit down if you like,” said Uncle Paul.
“What, and have the sailors laugh at me? That I won’t! I want to get used to it as soon as I can.”
“Then go and get used to it,” said Uncle Paul. “You can’t do better. I should like to do the same, but a man can’t hop about at fifty, or more, like a boy at fifteen.”
“Why, uncle, I am nearly eighteen.”
“Then go and behave like it, boy. Look at the sailors. They keep their feet well enough, without seeming as if they are going to rush overboard.”
“Oh, I shall soon get used to it, uncle,” cried Rodd.
But instead of improving that day his progress about the deck was decidedly retrograde, for as the time went on and the Channel opened out, the wind from the north-west grew fresher and fresher, and the captain from time to time kept the men busy taking in a reef here and a reef there.
Topgallant sails came down; flying jib was hauled in; and towards evening, as she span along as fast or faster than ever, not above half the amount of canvas was spread that she had skimmed under earlier in the day.
Every now and then too there was a loud smack against the bows, and a shower of spray made the deck glisten for a few minutes; but it rapidly dried up again, and as the schooner careened over and dashed along, Rodd stood aft, looking back through the foam to see how the waves came curling along after them, as if in full chase of the beautiful little vessel and seeking to leap aboard.
The sun had gone down in a bronzy red bank of clouds, and after being below to the cabin tea Rodd had eagerly hurried on deck again, to find that the sea around was beginning to look wild and strange.