"I shall never
undervalue an American as an enemy again," thought I. I lay down on the
side of the little vessel, now nearly level as she lay over, alongside of
Paul Brandywine, in a position that commanded a view of Obed's face through
the small scuttle. Ten minutes might have elapsed--a tearing crash--and a
rattle on the deck overhead, as if a shower of stones had been thrown from
aloft on it.
"That's through the mainmast, I expect," quoth Paul.
I looked from him to the Captain; a black thick stream of blood was
trickling down behind his ear. Paul had noticed it also.
"You are hurt by one of them splinters, I see; give me the helm now,
Captain;" and, crushed down as the poor fellow appeared to be under some
fearful and mysterious consciousness of impending danger, he nevertheless
addressed himself to take his Captain's place.
"Hold your blasted tongue"--was the polite rejoinder.
"I say, Captain,"--shouted your humble servant, "you may as well eat pease
with a pitchfork, as try to weather him. You are hooked, man, flounder as
you will. Old Nick can't shake you clear--so I won't stand this any
longer;" and making a spring, I jammed myself through the skylight, until I
sat on the deck, looking aft, and confronting him, and there we were, stuck
up like the two kings of Brentford, or a couple of smiling cherries on one
stalk. I have often laughed over the figure we must have cut, but at the
time there was that going on that would have made Comus himself look grave.
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