“Oh, shut up and go to sleep, Joe,” I cried. “You’ve kept me awake long enough already.”
“Yes, sir.” And after that he was silent.
CHAPTER II.
OUR VENTURE.
Those who were present at the launching of our beautiful new Seagull were unanimous in declaring her the trimmest, daintiest, most graceful craft that had ever yet floated in the waters of old Chelsea bay. Her color was pure white, her brass work brilliant as gold. She was yacht built, on the lines of the fast express boats, and no expense had been spared in her construction or fittings.
My father, Captain Steele, one of the ablest and best known sailors on the Atlantic coast, had personally supervised the building of the Seagull and watched every step of progress and inspected every bit of timber, steel, or brass, so that nothing might be slighted in any way. She was one hundred and eighty-seven feet in length, with a thirty-six foot beam and a depth of twenty-one feet, and her net tonnage was close to fourteen hundred. We had her schooner rigged, because Captain Steele believed in sailing and had designed his ship for a merchantman of the highest class, but of the old school.
Uncle Naboth and I, who were also part owners of the ship—the firm being Steele, Perkins & Steele—had begged earnestly to convert her into a modern steamer; but my father angrily resented the suggestion.
“Her name’s the Seagull,” he declared, “an’ a seagull without wings ’ud be a doggone jack-rabbit; so wings she mus’ have, my lads, ef Dick Steele’s goin’ to sail her.”
We had really put a fortune into the craft, and Uncle Naboth—a shrewd old trader who marked the world as it moved and tried to keep pace with it—was as anxious to have the ship modern in every respect as I was. So we stood stubbornly side by side and argued with the Captain until he finally granted a partial concession to our wishes and consented to our installing an auxiliary equipment of a screw propeller driven by powerful engines, with the express understanding that they must only be used in case of emergency.
“It’s a rank waste o’ money, an’ takes up vallyble room,” he growled; “but ef so be you ain’t satisfied with decent spars an’ riggin,’ why, git your blarsted ol’ machinery aboard—an’ be hanged to ye both!”
This consent was obtained soon after my return from Panama, but Uncle Naboth and I had ordered the engines months previously, having been determined to install them from the day the Seagull was first planned; so no time was lost in getting them placed.