“Yes, sir, there’s no doubt of it. She is a large ship,” was the answer. “Maybe she’s an Indiaman bound lip the Hooghly. Maybe she’s the ‘Rajah,’ which sailed two days ago, and has been becalmed; or a China ship looking in for orders; or one of the men-of-war on the station.”
“I care not what she is, provided she is not an enemy’s cruiser,” said Morton. “She seems to have very square yards.”
“Difficult to make that out, I should think,” muttered the pilot as he walked the deck, and then went forward to give some directions to his native crew.
Till the pilot vessel re-entered the Hooghly, and Morton lost sight of the Indiaman, his eye was seldom off her, while his thoughts were even still more constant.
Once more he was on board the “Thisbe.” He felt no inclination to revisit Calcutta, and he only went up there once to pay his respects to Mrs Edmonstone. She very naturally talked of Miss Armytage, and spoke warmly in her praise. It was a subject of which Morton was not likely to grow tired.
“Admiral Rainier tells me that he has ordered the ‘Thisbe’ to proceed to Bombay, so that you will have an opportunity of renewing your acquaintance with my young friend,” she added. “I think that I shall charge you with a small parcel for her; some articles which were not ready before she sailed.”
This was delightful news for Morton. He had not heard that there was any chance of the frigate being sent round to that presidency. Of course it was not out of the pale of probability that Mrs Edmonstone was likely to know where the ship was to be sent before the officers belonging to her. Two or three days passed before the captain himself had the information confirmed by the admiral’s secretary.
“You are right, Morton,” he said when he came on board. “We are bound for Bombay, and if we put our best foot foremost we shall get there as soon as that old tea-chest, the ‘Osterley.’”
Morton got his parcel from Mrs Edmonstone, and three days afterwards the “Thisbe’s” keel was ploughing the waters of the Indian Ocean. During the voyage one pair of eyes, at all events, kept a bright look out for any sail of the appearance of the “Osterley” Indiaman. The second lieutenant was continually going aloft, spy-glass in hand, sweeping the horizon. Some of his shipmates might have suspected the cause, but he gave no reason for this practice which he had adopted. It was war time, and he might have been on the look-out for an enemy.
“We shall be much obliged to you, Morton, if you make out a rich prize some day,” observed Sims. “A Dutchman from Java, or a Spaniard from the Manillas, would be about the thing.”