“Well, we have got here and we have ridden out the worst of it, and we haven't dragged our anchors and nobody has seen us, and that exceedingly amusing little captain will be here in a few hours. Why look so gloomy, my friend?”
Captain Petersen shook the rain from the brim of his sou'wester.
“We are putting our necks within a rope,” he said.
“Not your neck—only mine,” replied Martin. “It is a necktie that one gets accustomed to. Look at my father! One rarely sees an old man so free from care. How he laughs! How he enjoys his dinner and his wine! The wine runs down a man's throat none the less pleasantly because there is a loose rope around it. And he has played a dangerous game all his life—that old man, eh?”
“It is all very well for you,” said Captain Petersen, gravely, turning his gloomy eyes towards his companion. “A prince does not get shot or hanged or sent to the bottom in the high seas.”
“Ah! you think that,” said Prince Martin, momentarily grave. “One can never tell.”
Then he broke into a laugh.
“Come!” he said, “I am going aloft to look for that English boat. Come on to the fore-yard. We can watch him come in—that little bulldog of a man.”
“If he has any sense he will wait in the open until this gale is over,” grumbled Petersen, nevertheless following his companion forward.
“He has only one sense, that man—a sense of infinite fearlessness.”