The time wore on, and it might have been half past seven when we went on deck.
It was a very dark night—Tailtackle had the watch. “Any thing in sight, Mr Tailtackle?”
“Why, no, sir; but I have just asked your steward for your night glass, as, once or twice—but it is so thick—Pray, sir, how far are we off the Hole in the Wall?”
“Why, sixty miles at the least.”
The Hole in the Wall is a very remarkable rock in the Crooked Island Passage, greatly resembling, as the name betokens, a wall breached by the sea, or by battering cannon, which rises abruptly out of the water, to a height of forty feet.
“Then,” quoth Tailtackle sharply, “there must be a sail close aboard of us, to windward there.”
“Where?” said I. “Quick, send for my night-glass.”
“I have it here in my hand, sir.”
“Let me see”—and I peered through it until my eyes ached again. I could see nothing, and resumed my walk on the quarterdeck. Tailtackle, in the meantime, continued to look through the telescope, and as I turned from aft to walk forward, a few minutes after this—“Why, sir,” said he, “it clears a bit, and I see the object that has puzzled me again.”
“Eh? give me the glass”—in a second I caught it. “By Jupiter, you say true, Tailtackle! beat to quarters—quick—clear away the long gun forward there!”