“It’s my turn, Larry,” cried Muggins, holding out his hand for the coveted implement of fumigation.
“No, ye spalpeen, it’s not,” said Larry, continuing to press down the precious weed, “owld Bob had it last, an’ ivery wan knows that I come after him.”
“It’s the first time I ever heard ye admit that you comed after anybody,” answered Muggins with a grin; “ye ginerally go before us all—at least ye want to.”
“Not at all,” retorted the cook; “whin there’s dirty work to be done, I most usually kape modestly in the background, an’ lets you go first, bekase it’s your nat’ral callin’. Arrah! the sun’s goin’ to set, boys,” he added with a sigh, as he commenced to smoke.
This was true, and the knowledge that another long night of darkness was about to set in depressed the spirits which had begun to revive a little. Silence gradually ensued as they sat watching the waves or gazing wistfully towards the gorgeous mass of clouds in which the sun was setting. For a considerable time they sat thus, when suddenly Will Osten started up, and, pointing towards the horizon a little to the left of the sun, exclaimed—
“Look there, captain; what’s that?”
“Land ho!” shouted Larry O’Hale at that moment, springing up on the thwart and holding on to the foremast.
All the rest leaped up in great excitement.
“It’s only a cloud,” said one.
“It’s a fog-bank,” cried another.