The captain, Miss Armstrong, and Mr. Hardy sat at breakfast. The ship had made good way; not many parallels lay between her and the northern verge of the tropics. The sun poured his light in fire, and the flying-fish sparkled under the bows.
The sailors had noticed nothing in the captain to set them growling suspicion into one another's ears with askant looks aft. If Mr. Candy, who lived close to the skipper, had taken any sort of altitude of the poor man's mind, he kept his observation secret; or it might be that he believed the captain was a little upset by the loss of his child, and he had not the penetrating sagacity of Hardy.
The wind had fallen light, and the motions of the ship were as easy as a swimmer's. Hardy had noticed in the captain's face when they met that morning an expression of lofty triumph, of sublimated self-complacency such as a man deranged by conquest and acclamation might wear as he passes slowly through the huzzaing crowds. He seemed self-crowned, and might have reminded a better student than Hardy of one of Nat Lee's heaven-defying stage-kings.
"To-day is Friday," said the captain, addressing Miss Armstrong, "and what day do you think it is?"
Julia thought awhile, for she fancied he meant something in the almanac.
"I don't know, captain," she answered.
"It is my birthday," said the captain, "and Johnny is waiting somewhere to kiss me."
Hardy was about to deliver with all the respect of a mate a sentence of congratulation, but the closing words of the captain silenced him.
"I wish you many happy returns of the day," said Julia.