Nettleship, Tom Pim, and I were in the morning watch. The first ruddy streaks, harbingers of the rising sun, had appeared in the eastern sky, when the look-out who had been sent aloft shouted, “A sail on the lee-bow.”
Chapter Thirteen.
Fresh captures.
There had been a stark calm since the commencement of the middle watch. The sails still hung up and down against the masts.
“What does she look like?” inquired Mr Bramston, the lieutenant of the watch.
“A ship, sir,” was the answer.
Nettleship, with his glass at his back, sprang up the rigging to take a look at the stranger.
“She’s a ship, sir, but appears to me to be a small one,” he observed as he came down. The chances are that it’s all we shall know about her. If she gets a breeze before us she’ll soon be out of sight.