“Certainly, bring it down.”
The officers went on with breakfast, and had forgotten all about Tom Scott and his sea-swallow, when suddenly the man appeared again, bearing under one arm a beautiful snow-bird.
It escaped almost at once, and fluttering upwards alighted on the compass that depended from the skylight.
All eyes were fixed on it. It did not seem a bit frightened, but looked downwards with one crimson saucy eye at the table.
“It looks like a spirit,” said Lloyd, half afraid, for, like most sailors, he was superstitious.
“It’s a spirit that will bring us luck. They always do,” said the second mate.
“Are you ill, sir?” exclaimed the doctor, addressing the captain.
One might have thought so. His face was pale, mouth a little open, brows lowered, and eyes riveted on the bird.
“Were such a thing possible,” he muttered, “I’d believe that was my snow-bird Alba.”
To the amazement of every one, no sooner were the words uttered, than with one quick glance of recognition, down flew the bird and nestled, as it was wont to do, on its master’s hand, held close up on his breast.