“What’s that, bo’sun?” cried the skipper, coming up on the bridge at the moment to look for the chart of the North Atlantic, which he had left in the wheel-house the night before, and overheard the old growler’s remark. “Got the Flying Dutchman on the brain again?”
“No, sir, I weren’t talking o’ that,” replied Masters. “I was a-saying to Master Haldane that it were precious misty and thick to win’ard and I feared thunder over there.”
“Thunder! thunder your grandmother!” cried the skipper testily. “I’ve pretty sharp ears, bo’sun, and I have heard none to-night. Have you, Haldane?”
“N–n–o, sir, not thunder,” I answered, listening attentively for a moment. “Stay, sir, though. I do hear something now, but the sound seems more like firing in the distance.”
“What, guns?”
“No sir, more like rifle shots, or the discharge of a revolver firing quickly at intervals.”
Captain Applegarth thereupon listened attentively, too, in his turn, while Masters went out to the end of the bridge and peered out over the side to windward with rapt gaze.
“By George, yes, you’re right, boy!” cried the skipper the next moment. “I can hear the shots quite plainly, I do believe. Hullo, there! What the deuce is going on over there, I wonder?”
There was reason for exclamation.
At that instant the dark mass of cloud on the horizon, towards which we were all looking, was rent by a flash, and we could see, standing against the black background in vivid relief, the masts and spars of a large full-rigged ship.