“Catch hold o’ the man-ropes,” cried the last-named worthy, looking over the side; “that’s it; now then, jump! all right! How are ye, kinsman? Glad to see you, Ned. I was afraid you were goin’ to give me the slip.”
“I have not kept you waiting, have I?” inquired Ned.
“Yes, you have, youngster,” replied the captain, with a facetious wink, as he ushered his friends into the cabin, and set a tray of broken biscuit and a decanter of wine before them. “The wind has been blowin’ off shore the whole morning, and the good ship has been straining at a short cable like a hound chained up. But we’ll be off now in another half-hour.”
“So soon?” said Mr Shirley, with an anxious expression on his kind old face.
“All ready to heave up the anchor, sir,” shouted the first mate down the companion.
The captain sprang on deck, and soon after the metallic clatter of the windlass rang a cheerful accompaniment to the chorus of the sailors. One by one the white sails spread out to the breeze, and the noble ship began to glide through the water.
In a few minutes more the last words were spoken, the last farewell uttered, and Mr Shirley stood alone in the stern-sheet of the little boat, watching the departing vessel as she gathered way before the freshening breeze. As long as the boat was visible Ned Sinton stood on the ship’s bulwarks, holding on to the mizzen shrouds, and waving his handkerchief from time to time. The old man stood with his head uncovered, and his thin locks waving in the wind.
Soon the boat was lost to view. Our hero brushed away a tear, and leaped upon the deck, where the little world, of which for many days to come he was to form a part, busied itself in making preparation for a long, long voyage. The British Channel was passed; the Atlantic Ocean was entered; England sank beneath the horizon; and, for the first time in his life, Ned Sinton found himself—at sea.