Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Pacific is not always calm, but neither is it always stormy. We think it necessary to make this latter observation, because the succession of short-lived gales and squalls which have been prominently and unavoidably brought forward in our tale might lead the reader to deem the name of this ocean inappropriate.
Although the sea was not quite so still now, owing to the swell caused by the recent gale, it was quite as glassy as it was then. The sun, too, was as hot and the sky as brilliant, but the aspect of the Foam was much changed. The deep quiet was gone. Crowded on every part of the deck, and even down in her hold, were the crew of the man-of-war, lolling about listlessly and sadly, or conversing with grave looks about the catastrophe which had deprived them so suddenly of their floating home.
Gascoyne and Henry leaned over the stern in order to avoid being overheard by those around them, and conversed in low tones.
“But why not attempt to escape?” said the latter, in reply to some observation made by his companion.
“Because I am pledged to give myself up to justice.”
“No; not to justice,” replied the youth, quickly. “You said you would give yourself up to me and Mr Mason. I for one won’t act the part of a—a—”
“Thief-catcher,” suggested Gascoyne.
“Well, put it so if you will; and I am certain that the missionary will not have anything to do with your capture. He will say that the officers of justice are bound to attend to such matters. It would be perfectly right in you to try to escape.”