"What is he here for? Because Mr. Stout is not here. I suppose they have changed places for a few weeks. The ship goes home next month."
"Don't you cry! In a day or two, if not before night, we shall be back again in the harbor of Brest. I'm willing to bet all my bad marks against all yours, that we get ashore in less than forty-eight hours."
"That's heavy betting, but it won't settle anything. There is Peaks; suppose we ask him," suggested Ibbotson, as the old boatswain came down the ladder.
"You can call up spirits from the vasty deep, but they won't come. You can ask him, but you might as well put the question to the anchor-stock."
"Where are we going, Mr. Peaks?" asked Ibbotson, as gently as though he were addressing a lady.
"Going to sea," replied Peaks, gruffly, as he went on his way, deigning no further answer.
"No use," said Little. "If we only wait, we shall know in a day or two. In the mean time we must be as proper as the parson's lambs."
Still the Josephine sped on her way, and no one was the wiser.
CHAPTER XIII.