“Ay, hasn’t He sent us fine weather at the right time? just to let us have a comfortable meetin’!”
“That’s so, Dick, the Master does all things well.”
“What cheer! Johnson, I’m glad to see you here. The boy has got some cocoa for’ard—have some?”
“Thank ’ee, I will.”
Such were some of the expressions heartily uttered, which flew about as friend met friend on the mission deck.
“I say, Harry,” cried one, “was it you that lost your bowsprit this mornin’?”
“No, it was the Swab,” said Harry, “but we lost our net and all the gear last night.”
“That was unfort’nit,” remarked a friend in a tone of sympathy, which attracted the attention of some of those who stood near.
“Ah! lads,” said the master of the mission-ship, “that was a small matter compared with the loss suffered by poor Daniel Rodger. Did you hear of it?”
“Yes, yes,” said some. “No,” said another. “I thought I saw his flag half-mast this mornin’, but was too fur off to make sure.”