The barque was nearly new, having only made three voyages, and always with pecuniary success to her owners.
She lay in Aberdeen harbour, and was nearly ready for sea.
. . . . . .
Now partings and all that are not nice things to write about. So I shall skip them, and reintroduce Sandie to you on a bright moonlit evening, as the good barque goes bounding away on the wings of a twelve-knot breeze, well to the outside of the Bay of Biscay.
Both Sandie and Willie—yes, Willie had won his father round to let him accompany his friend on his long, long voyage. Both Sandie and Willie, I was going to say, have got over their little experience of mal de mer, and have also acquired their sea-legs.
So, although the ship bobs and curtsies and coquettes with each advancing wave, it does not annoy our heroes in the least.
And although Sandie is wrapped in a warm Highland plaid, and looks in the moon’s pale rays somewhat of an invalid, he seems already to have regained much of his former heartiness and spirit.
The men forward are lazily leaning over the bows smoking and yarning; the midshipman of the watch paces rapidly up and down, watching sail and sky, now and then admonishing the man at the wheel to keep her full. He really seems speaking for speaking’s sake, as middies sometimes do.
Presently Sandie stoops down to pat and pet a dog, who has been following up and down, close at their heels.
“Dear old Tyro!” he says; “what a happy thought it was to take you, and what a delightful sailor-dog you do make!”