“Nay,” said McBain, “not this time; it’s a whaler, right enough; all her boats are hanging handy, and she is evidently on the outlook for blubber. Peter!” he cried, speaking down the main hatch, “have lunch ready in a couple of hours. I think,” he continued, addressing our heroes, “we’ll board her. Would any of you like to go?”
Of course they would, every one of the three of them.
While they were discussing luncheon Stevenson came below.
“We’re nearly close abreast of her,” he said, “and I’ve been signalling. She’s an English barque—the Trefoil, from Hull.”
“Been whaling, I suppose?” said McBain.
“Yes, sir,” said Stevenson; “she’s been wintered, and is now engaged at the summer fishing. She’s dodging now; and I’ve had the foreyard hauled aback.”
“Thank you, Mr Stevenson. Call away the gig if the men have dined. Let them dress in their smartest. We’ll be up in a few minutes.”
It was a lovely day; a gentle swell was on, broken into myriads of rippling wavelets by a southern wind, and on it the tall-masted barque rocked gently to and fro. The gig was soon lowered and manned, and, with Rory as coxswain, they left the Snowbird’s side. How pretty she looked! This thought must have been in every one’s mind as they gazed on her beautiful lines, and thence at the large but cumbersome vessel they were rapidly approaching. Hard weather and hard usage she must have experienced since leaving England. The paint was planed and ploughed off her bows and sides in all directions, and the woodwork itself deeply furrowed and indented.
“It is evident enough she has been in the nips,” said McBain, “pretty often, too.”
A Jacob’s-ladder was thrown overboard as they approached, and a rope, when up they sprang, and next moment stood on the deck of the Greenlandman, lifting their hats with true sailor courtesy as soon as they touched her timbers.