Chapter Thirteen.
In the French Port.
In spite of the knocking about by the storm, the schooner was none the worse, and in the course of the day as the weather rapidly settled down and the western gale seemed to have blown itself out, while the sailors had been busy swabbing the rapidly drying planks, and, the wind having fallen, shaking out the saturated sails to dry, Uncle Paul strolled with his nephew up and down the deck, waiting till the skipper seemed to be less busy before going up to him.
“Well,” said Uncle Paul; “are we damaged at all?”
“Not a bit,” was the gruff reply. “It’s done her good—stretched her ropes and got the canvas well in shape.”
“But how do you feel about the schooner?”
“As if she was just what we wanted, sir. Given me a lot of confidence in her.”
“Then as the weather is settling down you will sail again to-night?”
“No; I want to get a little more ballast aboard, and this is all a little bit of show. We shall have more weather before long. I shan’t sail yet.”
The work being pretty well done—that is, as far as work ever is done in a small vessel—Rodd noticed that some of the men had been smartening themselves up, and after hanging about a bit watching the captain till he went below, Rodd saw them gather in a knot together by the forecastle hatch, talking among themselves, till one of the party, a heavy, dull-looking fellow, very round and smooth-faced and plump, with quite a colour in his cheeks, came aft to where Rodd and his uncle were standing watching the busy scene about the wharves of the inner harbour, and discussing as to whether they should go ashore for a few hours to look round the town.