"My dregy,"[[1]] said poor Lennox, with a faint laugh.
[[1]] Anglice, dirge.
"Davy Jones—Davy Jones—the devil—the devil—the devil—hooro, hooro, hooro!" quoth Tooraloo.
Whatever it was we heard neither sound again, but they had scarcely ceased when a small glow-worm coloured spark, precisely like the luminous appearance of a piece of decayed fish, flitted about the foretopgallant yard and royal-masthead, now on the truck, now on either yardarm, like a bee on the wing, during the time one might count twenty, and then vanished.
"And there goes his worship visibly; why the air must be fearfully surcharged with electricity to be sure," said I Benjie. We were all astonishment—but the plot was only thickening.
"How loud and hollow the sound of the surf is, Lennox," I continued. "And I have never seen such a strong phosphorescence of the sea as to-night. Look there, the breakers on the reef are like a ridge of pale fire. Why, here are a whole bushelful of portents, more numerous than those which preceded the death of Cæsar, as I am a gentleman."
The Dominie did not relish this sort of talking, I noticed. "It may be no laughing matter to some of us before all is done, sir."
"Poo, nonsense; but there may be bad weather brewing, Master Lennox."
"Yes, sir," responded the poor fellow, speaking very fast, as if desirous of cloaking his weakness,—"yes, sir, we shall have a breeze soon, I fear."
"No doubt—no doubt."