Chapter Forty Nine.
The Count’s Appeal.
The south-west coast of Africa was fading away in the distance as the two consorts with their natural history seekers rode over the dazzling silver sea. The lads were abaft the schooner’s wheel, quite inseparable now, looking down through the eddying water at the fish, which seemed to have taken the swift vessel for some mighty companion of their own nature, in whose wake they could swim along in peace without fear of lesser enemies.
About an hour before, the brig’s gig had brought the Count and his son alongside the schooner, and the former was below in the doctor’s museum-like laboratory, listening to his learned friend’s remarks upon some fresh object that, now they had returned to the ways of peace, had been fished up from just below the surface of the sea.
Four of the schooner’s crew were under an awning, lying upon a couple of doubled-up spare sails which had been spread upon the deck, and the two lads had been seated with them chatting for some little time before they strolled aft.
“How well your men look,” Morny said suddenly—“all except Joe Cross.”
“Yes, he looks rather thin and pale, doesn’t he?” said Rodd quickly; “but he isn’t ill. You saw how full of fun he was, and ready to joke about having been bled too much. Uncle says he’ll soon be well again, for he’s in such good spirits. But uncle told me quietly that it was a wonder to him none of the poor fellows were killed. But oh, I say, isn’t this nice!”
“Lazy,” said Morny.
“Oh, I don’t call it lazy. It’s so jolly to be able to hang about in the sunshine without feeling that there’s some great trouble coming on directly.”
“Ah, yes,” replied Morny, with a sigh, “and that perhaps you may not live to see me next day.”