"Tell those two dirty-looking darkies to sheer off, Mr. Nason," sharply said Captain Hardy, as with only the stump of her foretopmast standing, and her bulwarks completely gone, the brig Calypso slowly swung to her moorings.
There had been a terrible struggle with tempest and storm, and it was only after a succession of head-winds and exasperating calms of many days' duration that the Calypso had finally managed to work back to the anchorage from which the hurricane had driven her so many miles out to sea.
"Be off there!" gruffly commanded Mr. Nason, in obedience to his Captain's orders, as a shore boat touched the vessel's side. "We don't want yams or fruit, and we've got nothing for you to beg or steal."
"If you've only got something to eat, that's all we want," replied a familiar voice, whose owner sprang lightly over the rail, while his companion followed more slowly.
"Upon my word!" ejaculated the Captain, in amazement. "Is that you, Ned, and what do you look like?"
A white linen suit that has been soaked with rain or dew and dried in the sun several times has a tendency to cling to its possessor's figure with more closeness than ease; its hue becomes dingy by being slept in and used to wipe fruit-stained fingers on. Such was the case with Ned's once brilliant costume. He was also barefooted and nearly bare-headed, while his face was burned to the color of shoe leather.
"I used to think," said Ned, helping himself to his fifth hot biscuit, and passing the corned beef to Joe, who sat opposite him at the tea table in the Calypso's cabin that evening, "that it would be rather nice to try a touch of vagabond life on some island in the tropics, but I rather think I prefer my regular meals at a table, and all night in bed—eh, Joe?"
And Joe, whose heart and mouth were too full for utterance, nodded an emphatic assent.