“Take this telescope, Jones, and have a good look at that brig,” said I, as they climbed the poop-ladder, hat in hand; “then pass the instrument to Simpson, and let him do the same. Then tell me what you both think of her.”
The two men took the instrument, one after the other, and ogled the stranger through it with the greatest intentness; but I could see clearly that, even before Simpson took over the instrument from the boatswain’s mate, the latter had already arrived at a pretty definite conclusion with regard to her.
“Well,” said I, when at length Simpson had ended his scrutiny and handed back the instrument to me, “what do you think of her?”
“Why, sir,” answered Simpson, “if she ain’t the Shark she’s own sister to her; that’s all I can say.”
“And you, Jones, what is your opinion?” I asked.
“Why, just the same as the carpenter’s, sir,” answered Jones. “She’s the Shark, right enough. I knows the steeve o’ that bowsprit too well to be mistook as to what that brig is. She’s the Shark; and we shall have the pleasure of slingin’ our hammicks aboard of her to-night!”
“I verily believe you are right,” said I. “At all events we shall know for certain in the course of another half-hour; and meanwhile you can do no harm by going forward and passing the word for the Sharks to have everything ready for shifting over, should our surmise prove to be correct.”
“So you really think that yonder brig is your own ship?” remarked Carter, when the two men had gone forward again. “Well, if it should prove to be so, I shall be very sorry to lose you, and so will all of us.”
“Lose! Lose whom? I hope we are not going to lose anybody. We have already had losses enough, this voyage, goodness knows!” exclaimed the general, emerging from the companion at that moment.
He had evidently caught a word or two of what Carter had been saying, and wanted to know all about it.