“Well,” said the Parson, “this seems to me sad waste of breath and temper; if you are a couple of lost babes, why do you not ask your way? There lies a pilot-boat, as you may see with your own eyes,” pointing to a little cutter exhibiting in the bright sunshine a single dark cloth in a very white mainsail, which, with her foresheet to windward, lay bobbing about in the swell right ahead of them. “That is a pilot-boat, and I suppose she knows the way, if you do not—why do you not hail her?”
The Skipper looked askance at the Parson, as if he meditated some not very complimentary reply about minding one’s own business; for, conscious of the estimation in which he was himself held by the fishing party, who were in no way chary of their remarks, he regarded them with anything but friendly feelings. But the advice was too obviously sound to be neglected, and the Skipper was not by any means anxious that the magnates on the poop should become acquainted with the fact that he was at sea in more senses than one.
In a few minutes the steamer was alongside the little shrimp of a cutter, taking the wind out of her sails by her huge unwieldy hull.
A short conversation passed between them, which as one-half was sworn down the wind in very loud English, and the other half came struggling up in broad Norske, was not attended with any very satisfactory results.
Birger offered his services.
“You may as well ask them what they will take us into Christiansand for,” said the Skipper; “that will soon make them find their English.”
A few more unintelligible words were exchanged, and Birger burst out laughing.
“They cannot do it,” he said: “they cannot take us into Christiansand: not only they are not able, but they are not licensed to ply so far.”
“Why! where are we, then?” said the astonished Skipper.