“Here you are,” he said fiercely, “take this telescope. Now”—as Hal took it from the old man’s unsteady fingers—“what do you see?”
The young Norseman, his yellow hair curling over his ears and one dark blue eye screwed to the rim, swept the glass to and fro once or twice, then he held it still.
“She’s a brig,” he said at last.
“Ah!” assented the old man.
Hal looked again. “Light’s very bad,” he remarked.
“I could ha’ told you that—here, give me the thing.” Ben regained possession of the glass and, unable to hold it steady, broke into another flood of profane language, cursing the woman, Pet Salt, again and again.
“She has vexed thee, sir?”
The young man put the question timidly.
“The ronyon burnt my rum-cup,” Ben Farran gulped with rage. “Oh, lad! the defiling of good, Heaven-sent rum with burnt eggs and honey!”
He spat on the deck at the thought of it.