“’Twas a tornado,” interrupted Mulford eagerly—“but ’tis over. ’Twas one of those sudden and tremendous gusts that sometimes occur within the tropics, in which the danger is usually in the first shock. If no one is injured in this cabin, no one is injured at all.”
“Oh, Mr. Mulford—dear Mr. Mulford!” exclaimed the relict from the corner into which she had been followed and jammed by Biddy, “Oh, Mr. Mulford, are we foundered, or not?”
“Heaven be praised, not, my dear ma’am, though we came nearer to it than I ever was before.”
“Are we cap-asided?”
“Nor that, Mrs. Budd; the brig is as upright as a church.”
“Upright!” repeated Biddy, in her customary accent—“is it as a church? Sure, then, Mr. Mate, ’tis a Presbyterian church that you mane, and that is always totterin’.”
“Catholic, or Dutch—no church in York is more completely up and down, than the brig at this moment.”
“Get off of me—get off of me, Biddy, and let me rise,” said the widow, with dignity. “The danger is over I see, and, as we return our thanks for it, we have the consolation of knowing that we have done our duty. It is incumbent on all, at such moments, to be at their posts, and to set examples of decision and prudence.”
As Mulford saw all was well in the cabin, he hastened on deck, followed by Señor Montefalderon. Just as they emerged from the companion-way, Spike was hailing the forecastle.
“Forecastle, there,” he cried, standing on the trunk himself as he did so, and moving from side to side, as if to catch a glimpse of some object ahead.