Forecastle Fears.
“What boat is it to be, sir?”
This question is asked by the first lieutenant, who has followed the captain to the quarter.
“The cutter,” replies his superior; “there seems no need, Mr Black, to send anything larger, at least till we get word of what’s wanted. Possibly it’s a case of sickness—scurvy or something. Though that would be odd too, seeing how the barque keeps her canvas spread. Very queer altogether!”
“Is the doctor to go?”
“He needn’t, till we’ve heard what it is. He’d only have to come back for his drugs and instruments. You may instruct him to be getting them ready. Meanwhile, let the boat be off, and quick. When they bring back their report we’ll see what’s to be done. The cutter’s crew will be quite sufficient. As to any hostility from those on board the stranger, that’s absurd. We could blow her out of the water with a single broadside.”
“Who’s to command the boat, sir?”
The captain reflects, with a look cast inquiringly around. His eye falls upon the third lieutenant, who stands near, seemingly courting the glance.
It is short and decisive. The captain knows his third officer to be a thorough seaman; though young, capable of any duty, however delicate or dangerous. Without further hesitation he assigns him to the command of the cutter.
The young officer enters upon the service with alacrity—as if moved by something more than the mere obedience due to discipline. He hastens to the ship’s side to superintend the lowering of the boat. Nor does he stand at rest, but is seen to help and hurry it, with a look of restless impatience in his eye, and the shadow still observable on his brow.