While the doctor adjusted the glass, Rokens muttered that “He wos sure it wos a bit o’ the wreck,” and that “there wos a bit o’ rock as nobody couldn’t easy git a t’other side of to look, and that that wos it, and the bit of wreck was there,” and much to the same effect.
“So it is,” exclaimed the doctor.
“Lay on your oars, lads, a moment,” said the captain, taking the glass and applying it to his eye.
The men obeyed gladly, for they experienced an unaccountable disinclination to row away from the island. Perhaps the feeling was caused in part by the idea that when they took their last look at it, it might possibly be their last sight of land.
“It’s a small piece of the foretopmast crosstrees,” observed the captain, shutting up the telescope and resuming his seat.
“Shall we go back an’ pick it up, sir?” asked Dick Barnes gravely, giving vent to the desires of his heart, without perceiving at the moment the absurdity of the question.
“Why, what would you do with it, Dick?” replied the captain, smiling.
“Sure, ye couldn’t ait it!” interposed Briant; “but afther all, there’s no sayin’. Maybe Nikel Sling could make a tasty dish out of it stewed in oakum and tar.”
“It wouldn’t be purlite to take such a tit-bit from the mermaids,” observed Gurney, as the oars were once more dipped reluctantly, in the water.
The men smiled at the jest, for in the monotony of sea life every species of pleasantry, however poor, is swallowed with greater or less avidity; but the smile did not last long. They were in no jesting humour at that time, and no one replied to the passing joke.