“You have so many queer emotions, I hardly know what to think at times,” she answered; “but, if you want to go back aboard the Arrow, why, go ahead. I’m simply a passenger. And then, I’m not especially fond of pork, even if we haven’t had fresh meat for a month or two.”
“Nevertheless, you shall have some to-morrow, if they do their killing,” said Brown. “As for me, I’ll eat turtle. One don’t get good fresh turtle every day. Besides, the day after to-morrow is Thanksgiving Day.”
“The pig is the turkey of the seamen,” I said, and I noticed the face of the Swede pulling the stroke oar beam in anticipation. “They’ll certainly kill pork soon on board that ‘Johnny Bull.’ It’s a pity the old man didn’t bring something besides those stringy fowls along with him.”
“It seems so funny to have Thanksgiving with a temperature of ninety, and with thin linen clothes,” said Miss Waters. “I’d forgotten all about it.”
We came alongside the Arrow, and a line of heads poked over the waist, for the men had seen our catch and were curious. A tackle soon heaved the turtle on deck and then we followed, but I left the small boat to tow astern in a most unseamanlike manner, for I had plans for the morrow.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Countess of Warwick had drifted off during the night and was a good two miles away to the eastward when the hot equatorial sun burned his way into a mass of heavy clouds upon the horizon the day after we caught the turtle. Lumpy masses of cumuli lined the horizon, and solid quadrilaterals, slanting with well-defined edges, reached from them to the sea beneath, showing that we might expect the tropical rainpour. Now and then a slight air ruffled the surface of the ocean, but it came from almost anywhere, and we made no headway on our course. I could see that Garnett had clewed up his courses on the Warwick to keep his heavy canvas from slatting out with the rolling of his ship, and O’Toole had done our own up in a similar manner. The hot, damp air of the early morning was fresh with the salt dew, and the decks and rails were streaming with the moisture. Sounds from forward were heard distinctly, and even the low voices of men conversing in the forecastle were carried aft. The clatter of pans and pots in the galley told of a busy “moke,” but the weather was too warm for any great appetite. I had slept badly and was in no good humour, so with great perseverance I kept clear of the main-deck to avoid trouble. At that time in the morning a ship’s officer is hardly more than human, and a man in my condition is generally a little less. I stood upon the break of the poop and watched O’Toole sitting upon the main hatch smoking a short pipe. He was in his undershirt and was very warm.
“’Tis a bit warm, or I’d lick th’ whole av th’ ship’s company,” said he to a Dutchman, who strolled past toward the galley for his watch’s breakfast.
“Vat I do, I do noddings, sur,” said the fellow, edging away.
“Och, ’tis fer that alone I’d whale ye, Dootch. Kape away from me, fer I’m th’ divil while this weather lasts. Git.”