"Well, captain," said he, "so you met with a squall?"
"I calculate not," replied he.
"Why, then, what the devil have you been about?"
"Why, I guess I sold all my cargo, and, what's more, I've sold my
masts."
"Sold your masts! who did you sell them to?"
"To an almighty pretty French privateer lying in St Pierre's, which had
lost her spars when she was chased by one of your brass-bottomed
sarpents; and I've a notion they paid pretty handsomely too."
"But how do you mean to get home again?"
"I calculate to get into the _stream_, and then I'll do very well. If I
meet a nor-wester, why then I'll make a signal of distress, and some one
will tow me in, I guess."
"Well," replied O'Brien, "but step down into the cabin and take
something, captain."
"With particular pleasure," replied this strange mortal; and down they
went.
In about half an hour they returned on deck, and the boat took the
American on board. Soon afterwards, O'Brien desired Osbaldistone and
myself to step down into the cabin. The chart of the harbour of St
Pierre's lay on the table, and O'Brien said, "I have had a long
conversation with the American, and he states that the privateer is at
anchor in this spot" (pointing to a pencil-mark on the chart). "If so,
she is well out; and I see no difficulty in capturing her. You see that
she lays in four fathoms water, and so close under the outer battery,
that the guns could not be pointed down upon the boats. I have also
inquired if they keep a good look-out, and the American says that they
feel so secure that they keep no look-out at all; that the captain and
officers belonging to her are on shore all night, drinking, smoking, and
boasting of what they will do.
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