I could not make the object out; something black, resembling a small capsized jolly-boat, rose and fell close astern of her. It jumped with a wet flash, then disappeared past the brow of a swell, jumped again and vanished as though hoisted and sunk by human agency. We ran the ensign aloft and bore slowly down, and when we were within speaking distance hove to.
Presently we made out the queer flashful object astern of the dirty, woe-begone little brig to be nothing more nor less than a large cask, suspended at the end of the trysail gaff; the line was rove through a big block up there and led forward, but into what part of the ship I could not then perceive. Three men were squatted on the timber that was built round about the galley chimney; their hands clasped their knees, they eyed us with their chins on their breasts. The melancholy appeal of the inverted ensign was not a little accentuated by the distressful posture of those three squatting men. A fourth man stood aft. He was clad in a long yellow coat, and wore a red shawl round his neck, and a hat like a Quaker’s. When we were within speaking distance, and silence had followed the operation of bringing the brig to a stand, the man in the yellow coat called in a wild, melancholy voice across the water:
“Brig ahoy!”
“Hallo!”
“Will you send a boat?”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Anan?”
“What is wrong with you?” roared Greaves.
“There’s nothen’ that’s right with us,” was the answer.
“What ship is that?”