Tom liked him better after this.
“Now fall to, sir. Ginger Brandy, keep that fan moving.”
It was pretty evident that during this voyage Barnaby Blunt was going to do most of the talking. Tom was rather pleased than otherwise that it should be so. He was now in that delightful, half-dreamy stage of convalescence that all must have experienced who have ever been downright ill, and in which existence itself seems a pleasure, and everything one looks at is seen through rose-coloured glasses.
But had Tom been even in robust health, a voyage like that he was now embarked in would have been pleasant in the extreme.
The ship was everything that could be desired from bowsprit to binnacle. She had every good quality except speed. But who could wish to speed over an ocean like that which sparkled all around them in the sun’s rays; a sun, mind, that did not feel a single degree too hot, albeit they were almost on the equator. The wind too was favourable, and kept so for over a week, and when it did at last die almost down, no one on board appeared to regret it; even the ship herself seemed to think it was the most natural thing in the world she should take it easy a bit.
There were plenty of books on board, plenty of ice, Ginger Brandy with his fan, and Barnaby Blunt with his ever cheery smile and his wealth of droll conversation.
“Say, young man,” said Barnaby to Tom one day as both reclined in their chairs on deck, “don’t you wonder where you’re goin’ to?”
“No,” said Tom with half-shut eyes. “It never occurred to me to ask. You said I was to come with you, and I’ve come. By the way, where are we going? To Tahiti, to Fife, New Zealand, or where?”
“Ha, ha, ha! Well, that cat and you are a pair, I guess. Ha, ha, ha! How ’Liza, my wife, would enjoy you. But now, look here. I’m going to tell you a story.”
“I’m all attention.”