“Man alive! I thought you'd have jumped at the chance. Don't you want to go rolling down to Rio? Can't you feel the magic of it—even in the mere words? Wouldn't you like to see the armadillo dilloing in his armor——?”
“I'd better get on with the packing, sir.”
Higgins was convinced that his master had suddenly “gone balmy.”
Before sunset next evening Peter again saw the Sea Maid.
The R. M. S. Maranhão, outward bound for Rio de Janeiro, had just left St. Alban's Head abeam when she passed a full-rigged ship bound down-channel so closely that Peter could see the men on board of her. Her tug had just left her and she was setting all sails. One by one the sails fluttered free and swelled to the soft breeze. Men were lying out on the upper topsail-yards casting loose the gaskets, and others on deck were running up the royals to the tune of a chantey,
Sing a song of Ranzo, boys,
Ranzo, boys, Ranzo.
A crisp wave curled from her bows, a long wake of gleaming foam streamed astern of her, and she curtsied gracefully on the swell as if gravely saluting the larger, newer vessel. The Maranhão passed under her stern, and as she passed Peter, looking down on her poop, saw the Sea Maid. And the Sea Maid saw him and waved her hand as the great mail-steamer surged past.
“D'you know that vessel?” asked Peter eagerly of a ship's officer who was standing near him.
“She's the Sea Sprite. Cleared from Southampton early this morning. Bound for Rio in ballast for hides.”
“Bound for Rio? Splendid!” said Peter. “How long will it take her to get there? I know some one on board.”