“Depend upon it our time has come,” said the second mate to Wenlock. “I have had enough of the world, and have been knocked about in it so roughly, that I care but little.”
“Our times, we are told, are in God’s hands,” answered Wenlock, calmly.
Wenlock, who had been taking his spell at the pumps, walked aft.
“We are in the latitude of the West India Islands,” observed the captain. “Any hour we may make land, and a bright look-out must be kept for it.”
Experienced seamen were aloft straining their eyes ahead and on either bow. At length a voice came from the foretopmast-head, “Land! land!”
“Where away?” cried the captain.
“On the starboard bow,” was the answer.
“What does it look like?”
“A low land with tall trees,” replied the seaman from aloft.
Two of the mates went up to look at it. They gave the same description. The captain examined his chart.