'It's as determinable as a rock, anyhow!' exclaimed Mr. Vanderholt. 'I want to be able to report a wonder when we return.' Here his Dutch countenance put on the air of good-humoured cunning with which he usually prefaced a joke. 'There is about a quarter of a mile of Equatorial water which possesses a remarkable property. Sink an object in it, and you draw it up gilt. If we strike this wonderful patch of sea, we will gild the Mowbray from waterway to truck; boats, ground-tackle—everything—shall be resplendent, and we shall be the marvel of London as we sail up the Thames.'
Miss Vanderholt watched Captain Glew, to see how he relished this sort of thing.
The skipper exclaimed austerely:
'It's a tract of water written of in books for the marines. It's not to be found at sea, sir.'
'We must strike it, man, so that we may return covered with glory.'
'Patch got any colour, sir?'
'I believe it is a blood-red. A man I once sailed with claimed to have sighted it. He was in the foretop-mast crosstrees, and saw the patch off the bow, and hailed the deck, but he squinted damnably. You can't keep a true course for anything when you squint. The captain missed the patch. No other man saw it; and the sailor, who was a Dane, was, or is, the only man in the world who has ever seen that miraculous bit of Equatorial water.'
He looked at his daughter, clearly enjoying his own imagination; and Captain Glew uttered a hollow laugh, and stood up.
'I will visit the vessel to-morrow, sir, and report. I will bring my papers along with me——'