We looked for it to appear upon the other side, but looked in vain. We
saw it no more that night.
What Hardenberg and I told each other between the time of the
disappearing and the hour of breakfast I am now ashamed to recall. But
at last we agreed to say nothing to the others--for the time being. Just
after breakfast, however, we two had a few words by the wheel on the
quarterdeck. Ally Bazan and Strokher were forward.
"The proper thing to do," said I--it was a glorious, exhilarating
morning, and the sunlight was flooding every angle and corner of the
schooner--"the proper thing to do is to sleep on deck by the foremast
to-night with our pistols handy and interview the--party if it walks
again."
"Oh, yes," cried Hardenberg heartily. "Oh, yes; that's the proper thing.
Of course it is. No manner o' doubt about that, Mr. Dixon. Watch for the
party--yes, with pistols. Of course it's the proper thing. But I know
one man that ain't going to do no such thing."
"Well," I remember to have said reflectively, "well--I guess I know
another."
But for all our resolutions to say nothing to the others about the
night's occurrences, we forgot that the tops'l and jib were both set and
both drawing.
"An' w'at might be the bloomin' notion o' setting the bloomin' kite and
jib?" demanded Ally Bazan not half an hour after breakfast. Shamelessly
Hardenberg, at a loss for an answer, feigned an interest in the grummets
of the life-boat cover and left me to lie as best I might.
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