Then he arose and hurried into his things, only glancing into the package, and catching sight of two or three letters and some mysterious objects done up in tissue-paper.
As he came on deck he walked quietly aft and touched his cap. Mr. Jephson, the executive officer, saw him.
"Ah, Mr. Seymour, merry Christmas!" he remarked, much as if it was the usual thing to say. "I have some work for your boat's crew, sir. Just step here a minute."
Bobby hastened to the quarter-deck.
"There, do you see that," said the Lieutenant, pointing towards the dark green line of coast—"that white thing floating there, a mile or more from shore?"
"Yes, sir," said Bobby, squinting his little sleepy eyes.
Mr. Jephson picked up his sea-glasses. "In my mind it will help clear up the meaning of that glare to the westward two nights ago," he said. "I think it's a bit of wreckage, or an overturned boat that is drifting in." The Lieutenant spoke slowly as he adjusted the binoculars. Then he turned, and added, quickly:
"Get your coffee; see that the men get theirs; lower away the cutter; pick that up or find out what it is, and come back to the ship. You will be here by breakfast-time."
"Aye, aye, sir," Bobby answered.
All hands were turning out as he entered the steerage, but he heard few "Merry Christmases," and the coffee tasted bitterer than ever. All at once an idea seized him, and he thrust the precious package into his jacket. He could read the letters anyhow as he rowed back to the ship. In another moment he was stepping through the gangway.