These last operations would have been but the work of six seconds, and yet they were never performed.
As the sailor and Snowball stood, halliards in hand, ready to hoist up, an exclamation came from little William, that caused both of them to suspend proceedings.
The boy stood gazing out upon the ocean,—his eyes fixed upon some object that had caused him to cry out. Lalee was by his side also, regarding the same object.
“What is it, Will’m?” eagerly inquired the sailor, hoping the lad might have made out a sail.
William had himself entertained this hope. A whitish disk over the horizon had come under his eye; which for a while looked like spread canvas, but soon disappeared,—as if it had suddenly dissolved into air.
William was ashamed of having uttered the exclamation,—as being guilty of causing a “false alarm.” He was about to explain himself, when the white object once more rose up against the sky,—now observed by all.
“That’s what I saw,” said the alarmist, confessing himself mistaken.
“If ye took it for a sail, lad,” rejoined the sailor, “you war mistaken. It be only the spoutin’ o’ a sparmacety.”
“There’s more than one,” rejoined William, desirous of escaping from his dilemma. “See, yonder’s half a dozen of them!”
“Theer ye be right, lad,—though not in sayin’ there’s half a dozen. More like there be half a hundred o’ ’em. There’s sure to be that number, whar you see six a-blowin’ at the same time. There be a ‘school’ o’ them, I be bound,—maybe a ‘body.’”