Next morning found our three adventurers dropping down the Thames with the first of the ebb tide, and a slight breeze from the south-west; Mabberly and Jackman in the very small cabin looking after stores, guns, rods, etcetera; Barret anxiously scanning the columns of a newspaper; Quin and the skipper making each other’s acquaintance with much of the suspicion observable in two bull-dogs who meet accidentally; the boy in the fore part of the vessel coiling ropes; and the remainder of the crew at the helm.
“Port! port! stiddy,” growled the skipper.
“Port it is; steady,” replied the steersman in a sing-song professional tone, as a huge steamer from the antipodes went slowly past, like a mighty leviathan of the deep.
“Is it to the north, south, east, or west we’re bound for, captain?” asked Quin, with a voice like that of a conciliatory bassoon.
“I don’t know where we’re bound for,” growled the skipper slowly. “Starboard a bit; stiddy!”
“Steady!” sang out the man at the tiller.
A few hours carried them into the German Ocean. Here Quin thought he would try again for a little information.
“Sure it’s nor’-east we’re steerin’, captain,” he remarked in a casual way.
“No, it’s not,” growled the skipper, very much through his nose; “she’s headin’ west.”
“It’s to somewhere that coorse will take us in the ind, no doubt, if we carry on?” suggested Quin, interrogatively.