“What?” asked the boy.
“That there boat they’ve lowered down, and how she’s manned. She’s no merchantman. Look at the way they are rowing. Why, they’re like men-of-war’s men, every one. I don’t like the looks of she, and if the old skipper don’t get overhauling her with them there eyes of his I’m a Dutchman; and that’s what I ain’t.”
“Ah, you make mountains of molehills, Joe,” said Rodd.
“Maybe, sir; maybe. But I suppose it’s all a matter of eddication and training to keep watch. There, you see, it’s always have your eyes open, night or day. For a man as goes to sea on board a man-of-war, meaning a King’s ship, has to see enemies wherever they are and wherever they aren’t, for even if there bean’t none, a chap has to feel that there might be, and if he’s let anything slip without seeing on it, why, woe betide him! There y’are, sir! Look at that there boat. You have hung about Plymouth town and seen things enough there to know as that there aren’t a merchant brig.”
“Well, she doesn’t look like a merchant’s shore boat, certainly,” said Rodd, with his eyes still glued to the end of the telescope.
“Right, sir,” cried Joe Cross. “Well, then, sir, as she aren’t a merchant brig’s boat, and the brig herself aren’t a man-of-war, perhaps you will tell me what she is? You can’t, sir?”
“No, Joe.”
“No more can I, sir; but if we keeps our eyes open I dare say we shall see.”