“There she is, just over the weather cat-head!” exclaimed Ned, as he placed himself in line with the mate.
“All right! I see her,” responded the mate, as he at length caught sight of the small purple-grey spot on the south-western horizon, and he sauntered back to his seat.
At this moment Captain Blyth made his appearance on the poop. “Did I hear a sail reported ahead, Mr Bryce?” he asked, as he reached the poop.
“Very likely. There is one,” answered the mate, without offering to point her out.
Captain Blyth looked annoyed at this boorishness of speech and conduct, but it was habitual with the mate—he apparently knew no better—the skipper was becoming accustomed to it by this time, and, without noticing it, he walked aft and said:
“Where is she, Ned?”
Ned pointed her out.
“Ah, yes,” said the skipper. “Is she coming this way, think you?”
“I should fancy not, sir,” answered Ned. “It was Miss Stanhope who first sighted her; she has been steering by her for fully five minutes; and had yonder ship been coming this way I think we should see her more distinctly by this time than we do.”
“I’ll bet any money that it’s the Southern Cross!” exclaimed the skipper with animation. “Get your glass, Ned, my boy, and slip up as far as the fore royal-yard, and see what you can make of her. I’ll stay here, meanwhile, and see that Miss Stanhope doesn’t run away with the ship.”