The music was a harp, a cornet, and a stout woman with a large accordion slung on her back. The cornettist, a battered-looking young man with one eye, carried a shell for collecting the money, and a camp-stool.
“Oh, don’t go!” drawled Mr. Brentin; “we have a passion for music on the waters.”
“ ‘Ave you?” cried the sarcastic cornettist. “Well, I ’ope you’ll like gittin’ blown up, too. Full steam a’ead, mates! Now then, missis, out of the way!”
Off they all trooped together as fast as they could down the length of the pier, giving occasional frightened glances back at the yacht, which began to blow us a sycophantish salute with her whistle.
“The only person who will get blown up to-day,” observed Mr. Brentin as he took his seat in the boat, “will be Captain Evans.”
All this time Miss Rybot had scarcely said a word. She was rather a haughty, not to say disagreeable-looking, young lady; tall, slightly freckled, with a high nose and a quantity of beautiful auburn hair. She appeared to take the situation with the utmost indifference, and not in the least to care whether she stayed on shore or went to sea and never came back. Altogether the sort of young lady who might lead an adorer rather a dance.
“Get under way at once, if you please, Captain Evans,” said Mr. Brentin, sternly, as we came on board and found the captain waiting for us, exceedingly alarmed, his cap in his hand.
“Aye, aye, sir!” bleated the captain. “Where to?”
“Anywhere where we can give the yacht’s speed a fair trial. What’s the matter with our going round the island?”
“There’s nothing the matter with it, sir, that I am aware of,” answered the startled Evans.