“Out here I am not going to give an opinion, but if we were in the garden at home in the look-out I should say that was a man-of-war coming into Plymouth port.”
“Yes, that she is, uncle,” cried Rodd, who had forgotten the heat in this new excitement.
“A man-of-war—that she is!” said Uncle Paul quietly. “That sounds ridiculous, Pickle. But one has to give way to custom.”
“Yes,” said Rodd—“a frigate. I can tell by her white sails.”
“Not big enough for a frigate, my boy. A sloop of war, I should think. Now, what can she be doing down here?”
“I know, uncle,” cried the boy excitedly—“looking after the slave ships.”
“Ah, very likely,” cried Uncle Paul. “I shouldn’t be surprised. We are pretty near to that neighbourhood; and if she is it’s quite likely that she’ll overhaul us. Ah, here’s Captain Chubb coming up. Look here, skipper!”
The captain, who looked very hot, and whose face proclaimed very plainly that he had been having an after-dinner nap, came slowly up, stooped within the awning, and in silence took hold of the spy-glass, whose glistening black sides were quite hot, and which Rodd thrust into his hands.
He wanted no telling what for, but raised and adjusted the glass to his own sight, took a quick shot at the distant object upon the horizon, and then lowered it directly. “British man-of-war,” he grunted. “That’s bad.”
“Why?” cried Rodd sharply.