“Or playing, may be,” said I.
The captain laughed, and, looking up at the sky, said, “I don’t like the look of the weather, Tom Lokins. You’re a sharp fellow, and have been in these seas before, what say you?”
“We’ll have a breeze,” replied Tom, briefly.
“More than a breeze,” muttered the captain, while a look of grave anxiety overspread his countenance; “I’ll go below and take a squint at the glass.”
“What does he mean by that, Tom,” said I, when the captain was gone, “I never saw a calmer or a finer night. Surely there is no chance of a storm just now.”
“Ay, that shows that you’re a young feller, and han’t got much experience o’ them seas,” replied my companion. “Why, boy, sometimes the fiercest storm is brewin’ behind the greatest calm. An’ the worst o’ the thing is that it comes so sudden at times, that the masts are torn out o’ the ship before you can say Jack Robinson.”
“What! and without any warning?” said I.
“Ay, almost without warnin’; but not altogether without it. You heer’d the captain say he’d go an’ take a squint at the glass?”
“Yes; what is the glass?”
“It’s not a glass o’ grog, you may be sure; nor yet a lookin’-glass. It’s the weather-glass, boy. Shore-goin’ chaps call it a barometer.”