“That’s just what we’re to see,” said his cousin. “Well, Tom.”
“Here it is,” said the mate, holding up a shapeless lump he had managed to pull out, though with some difficulty.
“Get the filthy thing washed then, and bring it to the cabin.”
Tom obeyed, and in a few minutes brought in the bottle and laid it on the table, at which Lord Glenarvan and the Major were sitting ready with the captain, and, of course Lady Helena, for women, they say, are always a little curious. Everything is an event at sea. For a moment they all sat silent, gazing at this frail relic, wondering if it told the tale of sad disaster, or brought some trifling message from a frolic-loving sailor, who had flung it into the sea to amuse himself when he had nothing better to do.
However, the only way to know was to examine the bottle, and Glenarvan set to work without further delay, so carefully and minutely, that he might have been taken for a coroner making an inquest.
He commenced by a close inspection of the outside. The neck was long and slender, and round the thick rim there was still an end of wire hanging, though eaten away with rust. The sides were very thick, and strong enough to bear great pressure. It was evidently of Champagne origin, and the Major said immediately, “That’s one of our Clicquot’s bottles.”
Nobody contradicted him, as he was supposed to know; but Lady Helena exclaimed, “What does it matter about the bottle, if we don’t know where it comes from?”
“We shall know that, too, presently, and we may affirm this much already—it comes from a long way off. Look at those petrifactions all over it, these different substances almost turned to mineral, we might say, through the action of the salt water! This waif had been tossing about in the ocean a long time before the shark swallowed it.”
“I quite agree with you,” said McNabbs. “I dare say this frail concern has made a long voyage, protected by this strong covering.”
“But I want to know where from?” said Lady Glenarvan.