But as I thus thought I sent my eyes to leeward, and the first thing I saw was a large steamer heading in an opposite direction, and undoubtedly going home. Our combined speed was making her look like to be passing at the rate of forty or fifty miles an hour. I started, and stepped up to Mr. M'Cosh, who stood alone at the head of the poop ladder.
"Isn't that vessel going home?" I cried.
He viewed her deliberately as though looking at her for the first time, then said, with his Scotch accent, which I will not attempt to repeat:
"I don't doubt it, sir."
"Then why not signal, Mr. M'Cosh? I may have to wait a long time for another opportunity."
"I thought, sir," said he, looking at me with a peculiar expression in his eyes, "that you were to be married this morning?"
"Oh! well," I exclaimed, seeing that any talk about the steamer would be of no use in the face of the swiftness with which a hull of about three thousand tons was diminishing to the proportions of a wherry; "Captain Parsons is all kindness and will have his way. But marriage or no marriage, Mr. M'Cosh, I hope he will give you and your brother officers instructions to signal the next vessel we pass, for we really want to get home, you know."
As I pronounced these words the square little figure of the captain, crowned with a high hat, brushed as usual the wrong way, rose through the companion hatch. Mr. M'Cosh touched his cap and crossed to the other side of the deck. The captain gave me a friendly nod, and stood awhile to send a number of seawardly, critical glances aloft, and then round the ocean. I approached him and said, pointing to the steamer:
"There's a fine chance lost, captain."
"Lost?" cried he, "you mustn't be in a hurry yet, sir. There's your business to do first, sir."