Her great black hull sat well in the water, though she was not loaded deep. At every roll of the swell I could see over her high t’gallant-rail and catch a momentary glimpse of the men on her main-deck.
Full rigged fore and aft, she showed a tremendous spread of canvas from her three skysail-yards to the foot of her courses. Her tall spars and long, tapering yards made stunsails unnecessary, and the bright blackness of her standing rigging told plainly that she had a mate on board who understood his business.
Below, her copper showed a foot clear of the sea, and the water was so quiet and clear that the eye could easily follow it down under her bilge, where it seemed to give forth a soft, greenish sheen as the light fell on it at each swing of the hull.
At every roll of the swell her sails slatted against her masts and backed and filled with short, irregular jerks at the clews, until the rattle sounded like the distant roll of musketry.
While I stood looking at her, a short, slight man with red whiskers appeared emerging from the after-companionway. He wore a cap with a long visor, and a dark waistcoat flying loose and unbuttoned, which set off the semi-whiteness of his shirt-sleeves to great advantage. He stood looking at us a few moments, and then sung out:
“Hey there! where are you bound?”
“Hongkong, if you don’t foul and roll the gear out of us,” answered Crojack, somewhat shortly.
“I will be aboard you in a minute,” came the response, and the small skipper held up his hand as if to ward off any further conversation until he arrived.
“Mr. Garnett!” he bawled, as he advanced to the edge of the poop, “Mr. Garnett!”
“Ay, ay, sir,” came the gruff response from somewhere directly beneath his feet.