“Good morning,” cried Silas, jumping down on to the deck.
“The top of the morning to you, friend Silas,” said Rory; “how do you feel after your blow-out at Captain Cobb’s?”
“Fust-rate,” said Silas—“just fust-rate; but where is Ralph and the captain?”
“Ralph!” said Rory; “why, I don’t suppose there is a bit of him to be seen yet, except the extreme tip of his nose and maybe a morsel of his Saxon chin; and as for the captain, he is busy in his cabin. Breakfast all ready, is it, Peter? Thank you, Peter, we’re coming down in a jiffy.”
Just as they entered the saloon by one door, McBain came in by another.
“Ah! good morning, Captain Grig,” he cried, extending his hand. “Sit down. Peter, the coffee. And now,” he continued, “what think you of the prospect? It isn’t exactly a fair wind for you to bear up, is it?”
“The wind would do,” said Silas; “but I’m hardly what you might call tidy enough to bear up yet. It’ll take us a week to make off our skins, and a day more to clean up. I’d like to go home not only a bumper ship, but a clean and wholesome sweet ship.”
“Well, then,” McBain said, “here is what I’ll do for you.”
“But you’ve done so much already,” put in Silas, “that really—”
“Nonsense, man,” cried McBain, interrupting him; “why, it has been all fun to us. But I was going to say that instead of lying here for a week, you had better sail north with us, Spitzbergen way, and my men will help you to make off and tidy up. Who knows but that after that you may get a fair wind to carry you right away south into summer weather in little over a week?”