“Ah,” commented Leslie, speaking to himself rather than to the carpenter, “then it could not have been the same squall that struck us. No, certainly not, the distance is altogether too great for that. It means, however, that there has been bad weather in these regions of late; so we will keep our weather eyes lifting lest we should be caught unawares by a recurrence of it. Thank you, carpenter; you have done very well. And now, if you will keep a look-out for a few minutes, I will go below and enter a full account of the matter in the log-book while the particulars are fresh in my memory.”
Miss Trevor had all this time been looking after the dog, petting him and making much of him, until the animal, revived and strengthened by the food and drink that he had taken, had struggled to his feet and was now staggering after her along the deck, as she slowly and carefully induced him to take a little exercise. Then, after the lapse of about an hour, she fed him again, somewhat more liberally than at first; until by dint of care and assiduity on her part the poor beast was once more able to walk without much difficulty.
The sun went down in a clear sky that night, and although the breeze held, the swell rapidly subsided, thus clearly indicating that it was not the forerunner of an approaching gale, but the last remaining evidence of one already past—in all probability the same gale the initial outfly of which had worked the destruction of the Flying Eagle.
The life of a sailor is usually one of almost wearisome monotony, despite what landsmen have to say as to its excitements. True, the individual who is fortunate enough to possess an eye for colour and effect, and the leisure to note the ever-varying forms and tints of sea and sky—especially if he also happens to be endowed with the skill to transfer them to paper or canvas—need never pass an uninteresting moment at sea. Such fortunately circumstanced people are, however, few and far between, and it is more especially to the ordinary mariner that reference is now made. To him there are, broadly speaking, only two experiences, those of fine weather and of storm. Fine weather means to him usually little more than the comfort of dry clothes, his full watch below, and perhaps not quite such hard work; while bad weather means sodden garments, little and broken rest, and—unless the ship be snugged down and hove-to—incessant strenuous work. To him the constantly changing aspects of the sky appeal in one way only, namely, as forecasts of impending weather.
And the incidents of sea-life, apart from the changes of weather, and the sighting of occasional ships, are few. Derelicts are not fallen in with every day; nor is the overwhelming of a ship by a waterspout a frequent occurrence. Yet extraordinary events—some of them marvellous almost beyond credence—unquestionably do occur from time to time, and nowhere more frequently than at sea. And it is quite within the bounds of possibility for one craft to circumnavigate the globe without encountering a single incident worth recording, while another, upon a voyage of less than half that length, will fall in with so many and such extraordinary adventures that there will not be space enough in her log-book to record the half of them.
This, it would almost appear, was to be the experience of the Mermaid; for upon the afternoon of the day following that of their meeting with the Flying Eagle, her crew were privileged to witness a sight that a man may follow the sea for years without beholding.