Willy Dicey and Peter Patch had been on the poop when these remarks had been made. “I say, Dicey, do you suppose that the commander really believes harm will come to the ship because Ensign Holt killed the albatross?” asked Peter, as they took a turn together on the port side of the quarterdeck.
“I should think not,” answered Willy. “I do not see what the one thing has to do with the other.”
“The sailors say, however, that it is very unlucky to kill an albatross,” observed Peter. “They fancy that the souls of people who die at sea fly about in the bodies of albatrosses, I suppose, or something of that sort—I am not quite certain; and for my part I wish that Ensign Holt had been less free with his rifle. I have always thought him a donkey, and donkeys do a good deal of mischief sometimes.”
“I will ask Harry Shafto what he thinks about it,” said Willy. “I have read a poem about a man who shot an albatross, and all the people died on board, and the ship went floating about till the masts and sails rotted, and he alone remained alive.”
“I suppose he lived on the ship’s stores then,” observed Peter. “He would have had plenty to eat, as there was no one to share the grub with him; but I should not like to have been in his skin. Did he ever get to shore, or how did people come to know it?”
“I think the old hulk reached the land after a good many years,” said Willy; “but I am not quite certain about that.”
“He must have had a terrible life of it, all alone by himself,” said Peter. “I should like to hear more of the story; but, I say, Dicey, are you certain that it is true?”
“No, I rather think it is a poet’s fancy, for the story is written in verse,” answered Willy.
“Well! that’s some comfort,” observed Peter; “because, you see, if the same thing was to happen to us, we should all have to die, and Ensign Holt would be the only person left on board the ‘Ranger.’”
Harry Shafto soon afterwards coming on deck, the two midshipmen appealed to him for his opinion. Harry laughed heartily.