“Bob,” said he, speaking very slowly, “if there ain’t a ship right off the starboard beam, I’m a Dutchman.”
“You don’t mean it!” said I, starting with a feeling of excitement.
Before another word could be uttered, the cry of “Sail ho!” came ringing down from the mast-head. Instantly the quiet of the morning was broken; sleepers sprang up and rubbed their eyes, the men below rushed wildly up the hatchway, the cook came tearing out of his own private den, flourishing a soup-ladle in one hand and his tormentors in the other, the steward came tumbling up with a lump of dough in his fist that he had forgot to throw down in his haste, and the captain bolted up from the cabin without his hat.
“Where away?” cried he, with more than his usual energy.
“Right off the starboard beam, sir.”
“Square the yards! Look alive, my hearties,” was the next order; for although the calm sea was like a sheet of glass, a light air, just sufficient to fill our top-gallant sails, enabled us to creep through the water.
“Hurrah!” shouted the men as we sprang to obey.
“What does she look like?” roared the captain.
“A big ship, sir, I think,” replied the look-out, “but I can only just make out the top of her main t–gallan’ s’l.”—(Sailors scorn to speak of top-gallant sails).
Gradually, one by one, the white sails of the stranger rose up like cloudlets out of the sea, and our hearts beat high with hope and expectation as we beheld the towering canvas of a full-rigged ship rise slowly into view.