"But what land's this?" he inquired.
"An island uphove by an earthquake," said I.
"Great thunder!" he cried. "And what's that arrangement in shells
and weeds atop of it?"
"A vessel that's probably been three hundred years at the bottom,"
I answered.
"The quake rose it, hey?"
"Just as it is," said I.
"Well, boil me," cried the worthy fellow, "if it don't seem too good
to be true! Mr. Fletcher, trim sail, sir. Best shove along--shove
along. Come, sir, step below with me for a rest and a bite, and
give me your tale."
A warily eaten meal with another sup of wine and water made me a
new man. We sat below a long while, I telling my story, he making
notes and talking of the credit he would get for bringing home a
report of a new country, when suddenly the mate put his head into
the skylight.
"Captain!"
"Hillo!"
"The island's gone, sir."
"What d' ye mean? that we've sunk it?"
"No, by the Lord; but that it's sunk itself."
We ran on deck, and where the island should have been was all clear
sea.
The captain stared at the water, with his mouth wide open.
"Nothing to report after all!" he cried.
"I saw it founder!" exclaimed the mate. "I had my eye on it when
it sank. I've seen some foundering in my day; but this beats all
my going a-fishing!"
"Well," said the captain to me, "we didn't come too soon, sir."