In a trice they were all swarming aloft, the nude captain leading with the glass.
On the northern horizon was a finger of grey smoke, straight in the windless air like a point of admiration.
“What do you make it?” they asked of Wicks.
“She's truck down,” he replied; “no telling yet. By the way the smoke builds, she must be heading right here.”
“What can she be?”
“She might be a China mail,” returned Wicks, “and she might be a blooming man-of-war, come to look for castaways. Here! This ain't the time to stand staring. On deck, boys!”
He was the first on deck, as he had been the first aloft, handed down the ensign, bent it again to the signal halliards, and ran it up union down.
“Now hear me,” he said, jumping into his trousers, “and everything I say you grip on to. If that's a man-of-war, she'll be in a tearing hurry; all these ships are what don't do nothing and have their expenses paid. That's our chance; for we'll go with them, and they won't take the time to look twice or to ask a question. I'm Captain Trent; Carthew, you're Goddedaal; Tommy, you're Hardy; Mac's Brown; Amalu—Hold hard! we can't make a Chinaman of him! Ah Wing must have deserted; Amalu stowed away; and I turned him to as cook, and was never at the bother to sign him. Catch the idea? Say your names.”
And that pale company recited their lesson earnestly.
“What were the names of the other two?” he asked. “Him Carthew shot in the companion, and the one I caught in the jaw on the main top-gallant?”