“That’s my own idea,” said Tom. “Come, boys, we may as well look the worst in the face. It’s my opinion that she’s breaking up.”
“Well, we’ve got the captain’s gig,” said Pat, “an can take to that, so we can. We’ve got lots of provisions.”
“But we’ve no oars,” said Bart.
“Well, we can rig up a bit of a sail, so we can, out of thim ould tarpowlines.”
“After all, though,” said Bruce, “she may not be breaking up. I’ve heard somewhere that in a water-logged ship the water makes the most extraordinary noises ever heard whenever there is the slightest motion; so these may, after all, be nothing more than the usual noises.”
“And besides, what is this sea!” said Bart; “it can’t do anything; it’s nothing. In fact, the more I think of it, the more sure I feel that this ship can’t break up, unless she strikes a rock. I remember what sea captains have told me—that a timber ship may float and drift about for fifty years, and hold together without any trouble, unless it should strike a rock or be driven ashore. So now that I think of it, I don’t believe there’s the slightest danger.”
“But, if that is so, why did the captain of the Petrel desert her? He must have known this, if it is so.”
This was Tom’s objection, who was not quite inclined to receive Bart’s assertion.
“Well, I dare say he hadn’t been in the timber trade,” said Bart. “This was something new for him, and he thought she would go to pieces. That’s what he wrote in the message that he put in the bottle.”
This conversation had not been lost on Solomon, whose fears, prompted by superstition, gradually faded away, and finally died out. The true cause of the terrific noises being thus asserted and accepted by the boys, there was no difficulty on Solomon’s part about adopting it. Accordingly he soon regained his ordinary equanimity, and began to potter about the forecastle, arranging some dishes and pans.