“It’s the Cape, I make it, though it don’t show up mighty high. We’ve been holding on like this most of my watch, but it’s been getting a dirty look to the west’ard,” and as he spoke he leaned over the weather-rail and spat into the foam, which drifted past at the rate of six knots an hour.
“It’s the Cape, right enough,” said Zack Green; “and if we can hold on a few hours longer we ought to weather the Ramirez and get clear. How’s she heading now?”
“Sou’west b’ sought,” answered the man at the wheel.
“Well,” said Green, “there’s almost four points easterly variation here, so that brings her head a little to the s’uth’ard of west b’ south. Let her go up all she will, Mr. Garnett, and call me when we make the Ramirez. I don’t believe much in that drift; it’s all in that big easterly variation. Watch the maint’gallant-sail if it begins to come down sharp from the north’ard,” and as he finished speaking the skipper disappeared down the companion-way.
Garnett sniffed the air hungrily as the odor of stiff grog disappeared also.
“’Tis a pius drink, s’help me, ’tis a pius drink,” he muttered. “Yes, a truly moral beverage, as they would say in the islands; but there’s no use thinking a dog of a mate will get any pleasure in these days of thieving ship-masters.” He walked fore and aft in no pleasant frame of mind, glancing at each turn at the distant loom of the land on the weather-beam.
“How d’ye head?” he bawled to the man at the wheel, in total disregard for the skipper and sleeping passengers.
“Sought b’ west a quarter west, sir,” answered the helmsman.
“Well, what in the name of the great eternal Davy Jones are you running the ship off like that for?”
“She’s touchin’ now, sir, an’ goin’ off all the time.”