An anxious expression rested on Bax’s face as he stood by the steersman, glancing alternately at the sails and at the horizon where clouds of the blackest kind were gathering.
“Does your barometer indicate very bad weather?” inquired Mr Burton.
“I have no barometer,” replied Bax, bitterly.
The missionary looked surprised, and Guy Foster bit his lip, for he felt that this piece of false economy was a blot on the firm to which he belonged. In order to change the subject, he inquired for Lucy, who, since the time of her rescue, had remained in bed.
“My daughter does well, thanks be to God!” said Burton. “I think that no evil will flow from her accident, for she was but a short time in the water; thanks to you, friend Bax.”
“And to my ’prentice, Tommy Bogey,” said Bax, with an arch smile which was peculiar to him when he felt humorously disposed.
The smile fled, however, and was replaced by an anxious look, as Tommy himself came aft and reported that the schooner had sprung a leak.
Bax instantly went below, and returned with the assurance that the leak was trifling.
“The ‘Nancy’ is a sorry old hulk,” said he, “but half an hour more on this tack, and I’ll ’bout ship and run for the Downs, where we will be comparatively safe.”
The gale had by this time increased so much that the little craft lay over with her lee bulwarks almost under water at times.