“Y-e-s, I suppose so,” said Erminie, not very clearly understanding the admiral’s logic.
“And that something she run afoul of is supposed to be smugglers. Port your helm,” roared the admiral, on whose somewhat obtuse mind the whole affair was slowly beginning to dawn.
“Oh, Admiral Havenful! what do you think they will do with her? Surely they will not kill her!” exclaimed Erminie looking up imploringly.
“Just you hold on a minute longer, will you, Snowdrop?” said the admiral, looking fixedly at the fingers lying on his broad left palm, “and don’t you keep putting me out like this. Pet’s run afoul of smugglers; they have boarded her, and she’s knocked under and surrendered. Ain’t that it, Snowdrop?”
“They have carried her off—yes, sir,” wept Erminie.
“They have carried her off—yes, sir,” slowly repeated the admiral, in the same tone of intense thoughtfulness, “they have carried her off, but where to? There it is, Snowdrop, where to?”
“Oh, I wish I knew! I wish I knew! If we could only discern that, all would be well. Oh, dear, dear Pet!”
“Pet has run afoul of smugglers and been carried off, nobody knows where. Stand from under!” yelled the admiral, in a perfect paroxysm of grief and consternation, as the whole affair now burst in full force upon him.
There was no reply from Erminie, who still wept in silent grief.
“Main topsail haul!” shouted the old man, in mingled rage and grief, as it all dawned clearly upon his mind at last. “Pet’s gone! Been captivated; been boarded, scuttled, and sunk. Oh, perdition!” yelled the admiral, jumping up and stamping up and down, grasping his wig with both hands, in his tempest of grief. “Oh, Firefly, you dear, blessed little angel! You darned, diabolical little fool! Going and trusting your nose into every mischief that ever was invented. Oh, you darling, merry little whirligig! You confounded, blamed, young demon! To go and get yourself into such a scrape. Oh, if I only had hold of the villains! They ought to be hung to the yard-arm, every blessed one of them. Oh, Pet, my darling! By the body and bones of Paul Jones, you ought to be thrashed within an inch of your life. Oh, oh, oh, oh!” roared the admiral, in a final burst of grief, as he flung himself into his chair and began a fierce mopping of his inflamed face.