“_The Corsaire_, June 12th, 18--. This brig was dismasted in a hurricane
ten days since. Three of us survive. At the time of our destruction our
latitude was 8° south, and longitude 81° 10´ east. Should this missive
fall into the hands of any master or mate of a ship he is implored in
the name of God and of the Holy Virgin to search for and to succor us.
He will be richly.” * * *
“Last words illegible,” said the young fellow, holding the paper close
to his nose.
“Humph!” exclaimed Captain Bow. He hummed over the latitude and
longitude, and addressing the mate said, “The wreck should not be far
off, Mr. Pike.”
“Oh, Captain, _will_ you search for the poor, poor creatures?” cried one
of the younger of the married ladies.
“Twelfth of June the date is, hey?” said the captain, “and this is the
eighteenth. In six days the deluge, madam--at sea. Well, we shall keep a
bright look-out, I promise you. D’ye want to keep the bird, Mr.
Catesby?”
“No,” said I, “the box will suffice as a memorial.”
“Then, Mr. Pike, let it be hove overboard,” said the captain.
“Strike up ‘_Tom Bowling_’ for its interment,” cried the little Irish
colonel, “‘_Faithful below he did his duty_,’ you know. Nearly knocked
poor Catesby overboard, though. What is it, a Booby?”
“How _can_ ye be so rude, Desmond?” said his wife.
“‘Tis the bird I mane, my love,” he answered.
The girls would not let it be hove overboard for a good bit. They hung
over the snow-white creature caressing its delicate down and strong
feathers with fingers whose jewels glittered upon the plumage like
raindrops in moonlight. However, ere long the music started anew. The
people that still hovered about the bird drew off, and the mate sneaking
the noble creature to the side quietly let it fall.