“Well, and what do you see, Livetenant?” demanded Cooke, ever ready with his tongue. The soldier, who after the manner of most men when absorbed in the use of one sense was slow to occupy himself with another (it being one of the privileges of womanhood to do two things at once and do both well), did not reply at once, and Jenney, screening his eyes with his hand, looked out to seaward for a long moment, and then cried,—
“Surely there’s a sail in the scurry off the Gurnet! Isn’t it so, Livetenant?”
“A sail, say you?” replied Holmes slowly, and in the mechanical tone of one whose eye is glued to a spy-glass. “Well, double it, and thribble it, and mayhap you’ll hit closer to the bull’s eye.”
“Three sail!” exclaimed Cooke, fairly dancing with excitement. “Come, now, let’s have a squint, Holmes, just a cast of the eye, and I’ll give back the glass in a jiffy. Let’s have it, there’s a Christian!”
“Well, then, Jake, take your squint, and tell me what you make of it.” And the lieutenant, laughing a little, rose to his feet, handed the glass to Cooke, and rubbed his eyes, which, in fact, had declined to serve any longer in that one-sided fashion.
“You’re right, Holmes, you’re right! ’Tis three sail, and sizable craft, too; brigantines, I should say.”
“Come, come, Jake!” expostulated the lieutenant jealously. “A man’s not going to tell a brigantine from a bark at this distance, and with such a spoor flying.”
“Mabbe not, Livetenant, mabbe not; but I’ll miss my guess if it’s not a brigantine I’ve got in the field now, and laboring mightily she is. Take my word for it, Brown’s Island’ll be the death of her, unless they’ve got a skipper out of a thousand, and men of might to handle helm and canvas.”
“Give me one peep before you take the glass,” pleaded Jenney, and jolly Holmes consenting, the young fellow so availed himself of the privilege that Cooke, who was a trifle short-sighted, and found his own eyes useless, protested,—