I could see she was distressed, though it was not yet easy to imagine the cause. Lucy's requests were laws to me, and Neb was ordered to sheer down on the quarter of this second sloop, as we had done on that of the first. As we drew near, her stern told us that she was called the “Orpheus of Sing-Sing,” a combination of names that proved some wag had been connected with the christening. Her decks had also a party of both sexes on them, though neither carriage nor horses. All this time, Lucy stood quite near me, as if reluctant to move, and when we were sufficiently near the sloop, she pressed still nearer to my side, in the way in which her sex are apt to appeal to those of the other who possess their confidence, when most feeling the necessity of support.
“Now, Miles,” she said, in an under tone, “you must 'speak that sloop,' as you call it; I can never hold a loud conversation of this sort, in the presence of so many strangers.”
“Very willingly, Lucy; though you will have the goodness to let me know exactly what I am to say.”
“Certainly—begin then, in your sailor fashion, and when that is done, I will tell you what to add.”
“Enough—Orpheus, there?” I called out, just raising my voice sufficiently to be heard.
“Ay, ay,—what's wanted?” answered the skipper, taking a pipe from his mouth, as he leaned with his back against his own tiller, in a way that was just in accordance with the sleepy character of the scene.
I looked at Lucy, as much as to say, “what next?”
“Ask him if Mrs. Drewett is on board his sloop—Mrs. Andrew Drewett, not Mr.—The old lady, I mean,” added the dear girl, blushing to the eyes.
I was so confounded—I might almost add appalled, that it was with great difficulty I suppressed an exclamation. Command myself, I did, however, and observing that the skipper was curiously awaiting my next question, I put it.
“Is Mrs. Andrew Drewett among your passengers, sir?” I inquired with a cold distinctness.