The quarter-deck, except for the sentries, the watch, and the men at the guns, was comparatively deserted, the officers having retired below until the hour allowed by the enemy had expired.
The senior officer present was Mr Felton.
“Quartermaster,” said he, as he stepped up to the helmsman, “how does she sail?”
“Nor’-east by east, sir. Making ten knots an hour.”
“Keep her so.—Mr Gamble,” said he, turning to a midshipman, “have the goodness to go to my cabin at once and fetch the magnet you will find lying in the drawer of my desk.”
In a minute Mr Gamble had performed his errand. Mr Felton meanwhile had lifted the cover of the compass-box, into which he now inserted the small magnet, so that it pulled the needle a quarter of the circle round, and made it appear that our course was due north.
“That should give us time,” said he as he replaced the cover. “The land-lubbers will know no better.—Use your pocket-compass, quartermaster, and keep her as she is.—Now, my man,” said he, addressing one of the loyal marines who had been standing sentry, “what is it?”
“If you plaze, sir, the hounds beyant there want a word with yez.”
“Tell them the hour is not yet up, and that Mr Adrian is below.”
“Sure I told them so, and Callan, he’s their talking man, says he must see yourself, or there’ll be mischief.”