"Thank you, sir!" answered Galway, as he passed forward among the crew.
"What do you think of him, Mr. Grafton?" said the old man.
"He's no Irishman. There's no Mike about him, nor Galway either," said the mate. "My honest belief is, that he is an American, though how he got out here as a transported convict I expect would be a long story. It's useless to ask him about it, that's evident."
"Quite so," answered the captain. "But, come, I have lost my latitude, talking with him, and the steward is waiting dinner for us."
CHAPTER XXIII.
HOMEWARD.—THE EPISODE OF GALWAY MIKE.—CAPE HORN.—THE LAST WHALE.
The inspiring cry of "There she blows!" greeted our ears the third day after leaving Sydney, and two sixty-barrel bulls, tugging at the fluke-chains that night, were the rich reward of our hard day's labor, putting us all in high spirits, for another hundred barrels would fill the ship, and this we hoped to get somewhere on the passage. Our progress was somewhat delayed, of course, as we were obliged to lose the fair wind while cutting. We had the last "junk" in the tackles, when a sail was seen to windward running down across us, and, on drawing nearer, was made out to be a small hermaphrodite brig. He seemed to recognize us, for, instead of running down across us, he rounded to windward and lowered his boat. As he came up to the wind, exposing his broadside to view, we had no difficulty in recognizing a little brigantine that lay a little inshore of us, while in Sydney. "That's the Paramatta!" said a dozen voices at once, and no one knew her better than our supernumerary shipmate. He said not a word to those near him, but went aft to the captain. He stood respectfully on the lee side of the quarter deck, waiting till the old man should be at liberty to notice him. Nothing in his manner or appearance indicated that he was at all disturbed or alarmed.