On eight-bells striking we went to bed. All was quiet on deck; a pleasant breeze blowing under the hovering prisms and crystals of the firmament, the yacht leaning over in a pale shadow in the dusk and seething pleasantly along with a noise rising up from round about her like the rippling of a flag in a summer breeze. I fell asleep and slept soundly, and when I awoke it was to the beating of somebody’s knuckles upon my cabin-door. The day had broken, and my first glance going to the scuttle, I spied through the thick glass of it a windy sunrise with smoky crimson flakes and a tint of tarnished pink upon the atmosphere.
‘Hallo! Hallo there! Who’s that knocking?’
‘’Tis me, sir, Capt’n Finn. Can I have a word with your honour?’ exclaimed the skipper, who had subdued his voice to a note that was alarming with its suggestion of physical effort.
‘Come in, Finn. What is it now?’
The handle was turned, and the captain entered cap in hand. He closed the door carefully, and instantly said, ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but baste me for an old duckling, Mr. Monson, if I don’t believe the “Shark” to be in sight.’
‘What?’ I shouted, sitting bolt upright and flinging my legs over the edge of the bunk.
He glanced at the door, looking an intimation to me to make no noise. ‘I thought I’d consult with ’ee first, sir, before reporting to Sir Wilfrid.’
‘Is she in sight from the deck?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you seen her?’