"Here I am," calls out a voice in return, from the cross-trees.
She raises her head, and perceives the ruddy-faced Doctor hanging on by the ratlines.
"Where is the fine sailing weather you were to bring us—eh?"
"I have been looking for it," he replies, as he comes down the rigging; "and there is not a breath anywhere."
"Very well," she says, promptly; "I'll tell you what you must do. You must get everybody who can handle a gun into the gig and go away up to the head of the loch there, and shoot every living thing you can see. Do you understand? We are on the brink of starvation! We are perishing! Do you want us to boil tarred rope into soup?"
"No," he says, humbly.
"Very well. Away you go. If you can't bring us any wind to take us into a civilised place, you must provide us with food; is that clear enough?"
Here Captain John comes aft, touching his cap.
"Good morning mem! I was never seeing the like of this weather, mem."
"I don't want to see any more of it," she says, sharply. "Did you bring us in here because there was a convenient place to bury us in? Do you know that we are dying of starvation?"