Sail after sail towering skywards, the highest seemingly no bigger than a baby’s bib.
“Why,” said Sandie, “I couldn’t even name them; I could go no farther than the royals.”
“Oh, but we have got moon-rakers, and star-gazers, and sky-scrapers above them, and——”
Ring—ding, ding, ding, ding.
It was the steward’s breakfast-bell.
“Ah! what a glorious sound,” said the good skipper. “Come on, boys, and see me make the fish fly.”
. . . . . .
It appeared that this would be an idyllic voyage all through. The good old skipper himself averred that our heroes had brought him good luck, for a fair wind held until the barque got into the trades; and although the vessel was becalmed for about three weeks near the tropics, lying like a log on the water, with idle flapping sails, rolling from side to side on the glassy mountain waves with a motion that was terribly tiresome, this was only what was to be expected. Everybody was rejoiced, nevertheless, when the trades were once more made, and the Boo-boo-boo shook herself, as it were, and prepared for solid sailing after her long and irksome inactivity.
There is no doubt that before he left home Sandie had been threatened with that scourge of our islands, phthisis or consumption, and that had he remained in our fog-girt island another winter, he might have succumbed. But the balmy ozonic breath of the ocean had already done wonders for him. His cheeks had filled out, his voice was so far from weak that he could sing old-fashioned Scotch songs, like “Annie Laurie” and “Afton Water,” to Willie’s accompaniment. He slept sound at night, and was calm and contented by day.
There was no lack of recreation or enjoyment on board, independent of music. The saloon library was really a very excellent one, and contained the best novels of Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and Bulwer, besides a score of volumes of Blackwood’s Magazine, and nearly all the standard poets.