"Nonsense, Harry," said he, colouring; "I have something else to do than to pine and sigh for a lady's love. What a lovely night it is!"
"Yes," said I—"lovely enough for a high-flying, sentimental lover, but anything but pleasing to a plain, straight-forward fellow like myself. But, joking apart, Tom, you have not been yourself this voyage; you go through your duties actively enough, it is true, but evidently quite mechanically. Your heart is elsewhere. Do not be afraid of making me your confidant—I will not betray you; trust your secret sorrow, whatever it may be, to me; if I cannot assist, I can at all events sympathise with you."
"Thank you kindly, Harry," said he—"I believe you from my heart. You have made a right guess for once in your life. I am in love."
"Well, make a clean breast of it at once, and tell me who your Dulcinea is; that, if I have the felicity of her acquaintance, we may hold eloquent discourse of her charms together."
"Well, Harry, you remember Miss ——"
"Holloa! there's a breeze coming at last—beg your pardon, Tom," said I, springing up on the poop for a better view; and there it was, sure enough, coming up on the larboard quarter, with a cool, fresh, rippling sound, roughening the surface of the swell before it.
"Forecastle there!"
"Sir?" replied Tom.
"Rig out the foretopmast and topgallant-studdingsail booms, Mr Bertram, and bear a hand with the sails."
"Ay, ay, sir."