“Oo ay, we’re somewhere’s wast’ard o’ the Lewis. But whether wast, nor’-wast, or sooth-wast, I could not say preceesely. The nicht, ye see, wass uncommon dark, an’ when the fog came doon i’ the mornin’, I could na’ feel sure we had keep it the richt coorse, for the currents hereaboots are strang. But we’ll see whan it comes clear.”
“Do you believe in presentiments, Giles?” asked Barret, in an unusually grave tone.
“Of course I do,” answered Jackman. “I have a presentiment just now that you are going to talk nonsense.”
Barret was not, however, to be silenced by his friend’s jest.
“Listen,” he said, earnestly, as he rose and stood in an attitude of intense attention. “It may be imagination playing with the subjects of our recent conversation, but I cannot help thinking that I hear the beating of paddles.”
“Keep a sherp look-oot, Shames,” cried the skipper, suddenly, as he went forward with unwonted alacrity.
A few minutes more and the sound which had at first been distinguished only by Barret’s sharp ear, became audible to all—the soft regular patting of a paddle-wheel steamer in the distance, yet clearly coming towards them. Presently a shrill sound, very faint but prolonged, was heard, showing that she was blowing her steam-whistle as a precaution.
“Strange, is it not, that the very thing we have been talking about should happen?” said Mabberly.
“Nay,” returned Jackman, lightly, “we were talking about being run down, and we have not yet come to that.”
“The strangest thing of all to me,” said Barret, “is that, with a wide ocean all round, vessels should ever run into each other at all, at least on the open sea, for there is only one line, a few feet wide, in favour of such an accident, whereas there are thousands of miles against it.”