“We have not settled the worst and hardest question of the whole, Mr. Frisbone,” said O’Hara. “I have an opinion on the subject; but I wish for your advice.”
“What on airth comes now?” demanded the Prince, closing the door he had opened.
Since his wife had become Mrs. Frisbone, and they had crossed the ocean, she had been doing her best to improve the grammar and pronunciation of the Prince; and she had succeeded wonderfully well, considering the hard subject she had to deal with. He talked tolerably well under ordinary circumstances; but when he was dealing with a great question, or became very much excited, it was observable that he relapsed into nearly all his old barbarisms of speech.
“The mate of the Castle William wishes the steamer to tow the wreck into port,” added O’Hara.
“Into port!” exclaimed the Prince.
“He does not say what port; but the ship was bound to Portsmouth, England.”
“Where is that?” asked the Prince, whose geography was sometimes at fault.
“It is close by Southampton.”
“That’s not the nearest port?”
“By no means. We are not more than three hundred nautical miles from Lisbon; and about the same from Cadiz.”