"About south-s'utheast," said Henry.
"Werry good; werry good indeed," declared the Old Sailor, emphatically. "My son, w'en you grow up to be a man, w'ich the same you are a-doin' of at the rate o' twelve knots an hour, you'll be almost a good enough sailor fur to sail a cat-boat, w'ich I've knowed ossifers in the navy as couldn't do 't."
Again the Old Sailor paused and looked at the bark, and Henry was moved to say,
"Does she remind you of anything?"
"She do," answered the Old Sailor. "She reminds me o' the four-masted iron bark Lily o' the Walley, 'cos she don't look nothin' like her an' won't go half as fast. Lily o' the Walley were the name wot were painted acrost her starn in yaller letters, but she warn't generally called that. Her skipper were a werry respectable old seafarin' gent named Tom Crawley, an' seein' as how he were part owner o' the wessel, an' allus lived aboard o' her, even w'en she were in dry dock, she were knowed as the Uncle Tom's Cabin. Howsumever, she 'ain't got nothin' werry partickler fur to do with this 'ere yarn wot I'm a-tellin' ye. It are enough fur me to tell ye that I shipped aboard o' her as second mate fur the v'yage from Liverpool to Melbourne. We carried a werry miscellaneous cargo o' spellin'-books, sas'prilla, and cricket bats, all bein' intended fur to keep up a proper patriotic feelin' in England's distant colony.
"Waal," continued the Old Sailor, after a sweeping glance around the horizon, "the Uncle Tom's Cabin perceeded werry respectably on her way, an' Cap'n Tom Crawley sez he to me, sez he, one day, 'We're a-goin' fur to make a werry fast passidge to Melbourne.' W'ich the same I didn't say nothin', 'cos w'y, havin' bin to sea so long, I knowed ye never was in port till ye got your anchor down. Long Bill Smock, the fust mate, he were fur crackin' on sail all the time, an' byme-by the masts o' the ship were all buckled an' bent like a ole woman wot are spent her life over a wash-tub. Howsumever, that 'ain't got nothin' to do with this here yarn wot I'm a tellin' ye.
"One night, w'en we was sommers about half-way atwixt the Gold Coast an' Patagonia, it piped up from the south'ard an' east'ard, an' afore mornin' it were a-blowin' a hull gale. We shortened sail till we was hove to under a close-reefed main-torps'l, a bit o' spanker, an' a storm-jib. But, bless ye, it didn't do no good. The Uncle Tom's Cabin wallered in the sea like a hippopotamus in a menagerie tank, an' ye could hear the cricket bats in the hold knockin' the heads right off the bottles o' sas'prilla. The seas run so high that one time w'en the bark pitched bows under she stood right up straight on her head like she were a circus actor. Willum Wiley, wot were at the wheel, lost his grip, an' fell caplump down past all three o' the masts, slap over the knight-heads, an' into the water. But that werry same sea came aboard o' her, an' as she riz again, h'istin' her bow an' lowerin' her starn, Willum went floatin' along the deck down the other way, till he got back to the place where he started from, grabbed the wheel, an' went right on a-steerin', as ef nothin' had ever happened to him.
"Waal, about four o'clock the next arternoon," continued the Old Sailor, "the carpenter comes an' reports eight inches o' water in the hold, an' hands was ordered fur to man the pumps. We pumped her out, but the water come in again, an' this time it commenced fur to gain on the pumps. 'It aren't no use,' sez Long Bill Smock, sez he; 'her seams is all a-openin', an' we're jess tryin' to pump the South Atlantic back into itself.' The Cap'n he allowed that we'd got to drown, 'cos w'y all the boats was stove in, except the dingy, an' that wouldn't 'a' lived two minutes in sech a sea. So there we was a-goin' to the bottom sure, an' the nearest land 700 miles away, unless ye call the bottom land, an' that were 1700 fathom down.
HIRAM DUCK SAT ON THE FORETORPS'L-YARD AND WEPT.