One day I had taken an observation at noon as usual, the skipper of late leaving that operation entirely to me, for he knew Mr Macdougall would be certain to get a sight too, if only in order to have a wrangle with me as to the right position of the ship. Having made out the reckoning with a stop watch, I was busily engaged marking out our place on the chart on top of the cabin sky-light, as it was a fine day, with a pair of callipers and parallel rulers, when the Scottish mate came up to me.
“And whaur d’ye find us the noo?” said he, insinuatingly, to me.
“We’re in 1 degree 35 minutes north, and 28 degrees west; and I think ought to alter our course a trifle more to the southward to avoid the Saint Paul islets, which we must be heading for direct, steering south-west as we are now.”
“Whaur d’ye mean, bairn? There’s no land near us, I ween, save the Rocas, and that is far awa’ to the westwar’.”
“I tell you,” said I, positively, with perhaps a good deal of bumptiousness, “we’re heading on straight for those rocks there marked on the chart!”
“Why, ye’re mad—a stork staring loon!” retorted Mr Macdougall, in the most irritating way; “ye’d better gang awa’ to schule again.”
“I think you had,” I answered; “I have forgotten more than you ever learned!”
Now this was very rude and impertinent for me to remark to a man so much older than myself, and my superior officer; but I did not reflect at the moment what I said to my tormentor, for he used to nag at me every day about the very same point—my taking the sun and working out the reckoning. It was a very sore subject with him ever since the skipper praised me at his expense on our first day out.
At all events, rude or not, my reply had the desired effect of exasperating Mr Macdougall to the last pitch of endurance, for he was very easily excited.
“Gin you say that ag’in, ye onmannerly loon,” said he, foaming with passion, his pale complexion becoming paler, which made the freckles stand out prominently, “I’ll knock ye doon.”