At dinner Captain Cary was uneasy about the weather.
“I think we’re in for a norther,” he said. “The air’s got that bright look and the glass is falling.”
“I was thinking that, sir,” Sard said. “It’s a bit plumy and whitish over El Cobre.”
“Eh? Whitish, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like the idea of a norther in Las Palomas,” Captain Cary said. “I’d like to be out of it and clear of the Rip-Raps before it comes on.”
“We ought to be well clear of the Rip-Raps, sir, by eight bells.”
“I shall be glad of it, Mr. Harker,” Captain Cary said, “because I was here in the big norther of ’74—or was it ’75?—perhaps it was ’75. Seven ships went ashore: they drove, as we used to say, from Hell to Hackney. We did not go ashore, but we lost all three topmasts, and the sea made a clean breach on deck.
“In this shallow Golfe the sea gets up very quick, and is very short and very dangerous.
“However,” he added, “it seems to be coming on slowly. I dare say we shall be gone in plenty of time.”