As her owner had predicted, the Seabird put her bowsprit under pretty frequently in the Solent; the wind was blowing half a gale, and as it met the tide it knocked up a short, angry sea, crested with white heads, and Jack Harvey agreed that she had quite as much sail on her as she wanted. The cabin doors were bolted, and all made snug to prevent the water getting below before they got to the race off Hurst Castle; and it was well that they did so, for she was as much under water as she was above.
“I think if I had given way to the ladies and brought them with us they would have changed their minds by this time, Jack,” Tom Virtue said, with a laugh.
“I should think so,” his friend agreed; “this is not a day for a fair-weather sailor. Look what a sea is breaking on the shingles!”
“Yes, five minutes there would knock her into matchwood. Another ten minutes and we shall be{180} fairly out; and I shan’t be sorry; one feels as if one was playing football, only just at present the Seabird is the ball and the waves the kickers.”
Another quarter of an hour and they had passed the Needles.
“That is more pleasant, Jack,” as the short, chopping motion was exchanged for a regular rise and fall; “this is what I enjoy—a steady wind and a regular sea. The Seabird goes over it like one of her namesakes; she is not taking a teacupful now over her bows.
“Watkins, you may as well take the helm for a spell, while we go down to lunch. I am not sorry to give it up for a bit, for it has been jerking like the kick of a horse.
“That’s right, Jack, hang up your oilskin there. Johnson, give us a couple of towels; we have been pretty well smothered up there on deck. Now what have you got for us?”
“There is some soup ready, sir, and that cold pie you had for dinner yesterday.”
“That will do; open a couple of bottles of stout.”