These Bowlderos were the servants that Sir Gervaise brought with him from his house, having been born on his estate, and educated as domestics in his own, or his father's family; and though long accustomed to a man-of-war, as their ambition never rose above their ordinary service, the steward held them exceedingly cheap. A severer punishment could not be offered him, than to threaten to direct one of these common menials to do any duty that, in the least, pertained to the profession. The present menace had the desired effect, Galleygo losing no time in critically examining the prize's rigging.
"I calls nothing extr'ornary in a Frenchman's rigging, Sir Jarvy," answered the steward, as soon as he felt sure of his fact; "their dock-men have idees of their own, as to such things. Now there is sum'mat hanging at the lee fore-yard-arm of that chap, that looks as if it might be a top-gallant-stun'sail made up to be sent aloft and set, but which stopped when it got as high as it is, on finding out that there's no hamper over-head to spread it to."
"That's it, sir," put in Bunting. "Mr. Daly has run his woman up to the fore-yard-arm, like a pirate."
"Woman!" repeated Galleygo—"do you call that 'ere thing-um-mee a woman, Mr. Buntin'? I calls it a bundle of flags, made up to set, if there was any thing to set 'em to."
"It's nothing but an Irish woman, Master Galleygo, as you'll see for yourself, if you'll level this glass at it."
"I'll do that office myself," cried Sir Gervaise. "Have you any curiosity, gentlemen, to read Mr. Daly's signal? Galleygo, open that weather window, and clear away the books and writing-desk, that we may have a look."
The orders were immediately obeyed, and the vice-admiral was soon seated examining the odd figure that was certainly hanging at the lee fore-yard-arm of the prize; a perfect nondescript as regarded all nautical experience.
"Hang me, if I can make any thing of it. Greenly," said Sir Gervaise, after a long look. "Do you take this seat, and try your hand at an observation. It resembles a sort of a woman, sure enough."
"Yes, sir," observed Bunting, with the earnestness of a man who felt his reputation involved in the issue, "I was certain that Mr. Daly has run up the figure to let us know the name of the prize, and that for want of a telegraph-book to signal the letters; and so I made sure of what I was about, before I took the liberty to come below and report."
"And pray what do you make of it, Bunting? The figure-head might tell us better, but that seems to be imperfect."