‘Yes, Sir Wilfrid.’
‘How long will it take us to come within gunshot of her?’
Finn scratched the back of his head. ‘Mr. Monson, sir,’ said he, addressing me, ‘that gun’ll throw about three-quarters of a mile, I allow.’
‘Call it a mile,’ said I.
My cousin, with his nostrils distended to the widest, his respiration hysteric, his whole body on the move, and with that raised look in his face I have formerly described, stared at Finn as though he would slay him with his gaze. The skipper scratched the back of his head again.
‘Well, your honour, if yon schooner holds as she is and this here breeze don’t take off, we ought to be within gun-shot,’ here he produced a silver watch of the size and shape of an apple, ‘in three hours’ time, making it about half-past five.’
‘How far is she distant now?’
‘Betwixt three and four mile, Sir Wilfrid.’
‘Get your gun ready.’