“Why, with one eye open, figuratively speaking,” replied Allan. “He ought to be able to sleep soundly through all natural and legitimate noises. He ought to know the position of the ship before he lies down, how her head is, what sail she carries, how the wind is, and how it is likely to be, and whether the glass is rising, falling, or steady. With this knowledge, commending himself to the kind God who rules and governs all things, his slumbers will be deeper and sweeter, I do verily believe, than any that ever a landsman knows. Rocked in the cradle of the deep, the creaking of the ship’s rudder will not awake him, nor the labouring of her timbers, nor the dull thud of striking seas, nor the howling of the wind itself; but let anything go wrong, let a sail carry away, ay, or a rope itself, or let her ship more water than she ought to with a good man at the wheel, then your sailor awakes, and very likely his head will appear above the companion hatch about five seconds afterwards.”
“Allan,” said Rory, “you’re quite eloquent. Troth, it strikes me you’re a sailor yourself, every inch of you.”
“I should like to be,” said Allan, earnestly.
“And so should we all,” said Rory; “but, Ralph, dear boy,” he added, “where is this yacht? Where is the Snowbird?”
“She is called the Sappho at present,” replied Ralph, “and she is safely in dock at Dundee.”
“Dundee?” exclaimed Rory, in some amazement.
“Yes, Dundee,” repeated Ralph; “that is the place to fit out ships for the far north. You see, she’ll want an extra skin on her to withstand the ice, and she must be fortified, strongly fortified in the bows, inside with wood and outside with iron. Father told me all about it. Father is very clever.”
“And I know he is very, very good,” said Rory; “but did you tell him where we purposed cruising?”
“I did, of course,” replied Ralph; “that was the reason he sent the yacht to be fortified. In my very last letter I explained all our hopes and wishes to him.”
“And what does he say?”