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"Then s'posin' we try an' find out something 'bout 'em fer ourselves, eh?" She was a little brig, and an immense but ragged British ensign fluttered at her trysail gaff-end. She had been painted black, but the fret of an ocean long kept, the hurl and whirl of prodigious seas which were like to founder her, the blistering heat of tropic suns,[Pg 352] the viewless fangs of the wind had so worn her sides that she was mottled with patches of different colour as though she was suffering from some distemper which ravaged vessels of her sort when the voyage was of great length. She rolled wearily, as though her old bones were worn out, and every time she hove her bilge to the eye she disclosed a very landed estate of weed, long, serpentine, trailing, like the huge eel-like growths which sway from black rocks in the white wash of breakers. "You! At your time of life, brother, going a voyage to the West Indies with every probability of the French making a prisoner of you and Lucy!" cried Miss Acton in the[Pg 108] high key in which she saluted the ear when she was alarmed..
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"When?" So here lay the reason that the swamp-waters never froze even when winter locked all other waters fast in its icy clutch! What caused those air bubbles, if air bubbles they were? "No, tell me here." "Then, here's fer it, but I must say I'll be glad when the job's done," shivered Maurice, following his chum into the blackness of the root-house..
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