Bulger bounded about the deck, doing his best by most vigorous barking, to testify his admiration for his little master.
The sailing-master drew near; and, touching his cap and scratching the deck with the toe of his shoe, cried out gayly:
“Bravo! little Baron. That was splendidly done! I was sure we should never get through the shifting sands. And when they were passed, I was ready to swear the whirlpool would make short work of us. But when we sailed safely out of that, I drew near the tail rail ready to jump overboard, for I felt that nothing could save us from a blow from Thor’s Hammer. I’ve grown wrinkled and gray facing the storms of Neptune’s domain, but I never felt I had a master until now.”
I nodded and smiled, and quickly turned the conversation to some other topic.
“By the way, skipper,” said I, “remember, the very moment we clear the English Channel, turn her head southward!”
“Ay! ay! little Baron!” was the reply. Calling Bulger to me I now went below. I wanted to be alone. The fact of the matter is, I needed rest. The terrible strain on my nerves caused by the hopes and fears of the past few days, began to tell upon me.
Throwing myself upon a canopy, I fell into a deep sleep from which I was awakened by Bulger’s whining and crying.
The sailing-master was anxiously feeling my pulse.
I had slept three days and three nights. All this time Bulger had absolutely refused to leave my side or partake of food, although the skipper had tempted him with the daintiest morsels.
His joys knew no bounds as I sprang up and shook myself into shape.