“Look!” she said, “he’s on deck.”
Hal looked in the direction in which she pointed and saw the stubby figure of old Ben Farran, a long telescope to his eye, leaning against the remnant of what had once been a neat deck-house. Lumber of different kinds—mostly empty rum kegs—lay strewn all round him, while from the shattered stump of the main-mast to the painted ear of the fearsome green-and-red dragon, which served as a figurehead, was stretched a clothes-line, on which a few rags leaped and fought in the cold breeze.
Hal studied him critically for a few moments.
“He’s not so deep in liquor as usual,” he said at last.
“Oh! poor Pet Salt!” exclaimed the girl involuntarily. “I wonder where she is?”
“Stowed away safely under hatches, I reckon,” said Hal, with a laugh.
“You should not jest, Hal. I have not known him able to stand so these three months. I fear he may have kilt her. He would if she could beg him no more rum.”
“Oh! what a soft heart it is,” said the boy gently. “How long ago was it that thou shivered when I spoke her name, and now you fear for her. Shall we go back?”
The girl hesitated for a moment, then she said: “Nay, she may have need of help, poor soul. Come with me, Hal.”
“Come with thee, lass! Think you I’d let you go alone—thy grandsire sobered?” His voice rose in indignation as he put his arm about her shoulders protectingly.