“Like three tops, yes,” assented Ralph.
“Oh! I’m sure you didn’t, Ralph,” said Rory; “I wakened about seven bells in the morning watch, just for a moment, you know, and you were snoring like a grampus. And tops don’t snore, do they?”
“And how do you know a grampus does?” asked McBain, smiling.
“Troth,” said Rory, “it’s a figure of speech entirely.”
“But isn’t Rory getting nautical?” said Ralph; “didn’t you observe he said ‘seven bells’ instead of half-past three, or three-thirty?”
“Three-thirty indeed!” cried Rory, in affected disdain. “Ha! ha! ha! I can’t help laughing at all at all; 3:30! just fancy a fellow talking like an old Bradshaw, while standing on the white deck of a fine yacht like this, with a jolly breeze blowing and all sail set alow and aloft.
“Poor little Ralph!” continued Rory, patting his friend on the shoulder, and looking quizzingly up into his face, “and didn’t he get any letters this morning! Do run down below, Allan, my boy, and see if the postman has brought the morning paper.”
“Hurrah?” shouted Allan, so loudly and so suddenly that every one stared at him in astonishment.
“Hurrah!” he shouted again, this time flinging his cap in true Highland fashion half-way up to the maintop.
“Gentlemen,” he continued, in mock heroic tones, “the last mail is about to leave—the ship, bound for the distant Castle of Arrandoon.”