“No,” was the reply; “we are going back again, because much rain and wind is coming from the westward, and we want to get over the reef before the surf becomes too great.” Then one of them stood up and added—
“Why does not the ship go away quickly. This is a very bad place here when the wind and the sea come from the west. Your ship will be broken to pieces.”
“What do they say?” inquired the little man.
I translated what they had said.
“Bosh, I say again,” was the reply, “the glass has been as steady as a rock for the past three days,” and then, to my intense anger, he added an insinuation that my fears had led me to deliberately misinterpret what the natives had said. The retort I made was of so practical a nature that the mate had to assist the skipper to his feet.
A quarter of an hour later, as the mate and I still walked the deck, discussing the captain's shortcomings, the wind died away suddenly, and then several of our native crew came aft, and said that a squall was coming up from the westward, and the mate, though neither he nor myself could then see any sign of it, went below and again called the captain.
He came on deck, with one hand covering his injured left optic, told me he would settle with me in the morning, and then took a long look astern, and there, certainly enough, was a long streak of black rising over the horizon. The mate stood by waiting his orders.
“It's not coming near us,” said the little man more snappishly than ever, as he marched up and down the poop.
“I say it is,” said Laird bluntly, “and I consider this ship will be ashore, if we don't slip and tow out a bit before it is too late.”
The mate's manner had some effect on the obstinate little animal—“Oh, well, if there's such a lot of old women on board, I'll give in. Call the hands, and we'll heave up.”