are not so very far off
the shore. Will you hail him, sir, or shall I?"

"You, Joe."

A brief conversation ensued, question and answer ending by Joe's
declaration that he believed it was a brig; and then they descended to
the deck.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

DREAMY.

Very curious incidents are sometimes invented, but the most extravagant
can be matched by others that have really occurred.

One of the last things that had been talked about that evening had been
the vessel of which Rodd had caught a glimpse in the short tropic
twilight just as it was being swallowed up by the darkness and mist of
night. Joe Cross had incidentally said that he believed it was a brig,
and that night as Rodd lay half asleep, half wakeful, in his cot, kept
from finding the customary repose of a tired lad by the heat of the
narrow cabin below, the word brig brought to mind the vessel that had so
nearly run upon them in Havre-de-Grace, and in a drowsy stupid way he
had pictured her tall tapering spars, the flapping of her stay-sail, and
the rush of the storm.

Then all was blank, till all at once it seemed as if time had elapsed
and he was picturing the French brig once more, knowing that it was the
_Jeanne d'Arc_, though all was darkness and he only caught sight of the
vessel now and then, by the flashing of the fort guns, while the roar of
their reports echoed loudly above the rush of the wind as the brave
vessel tacked from side to side of the harbour, striving to reach the
mouth and escape out to sea.

It was all very vivid as in a dream.

Flash went the fort gun, there was the roar of the report, and all was
darkness, again and again, while somehow--he could not tell how it was--
the heat was intense, and Rodd threw up one hand, which came in contact
with the top of his cot with a sharp rap.

"Bah! It hurts," muttered the boy; and then dream and reality merged in
one, for there was another flash and the roar as if of half-a-dozen
guns.

But the boy was awake now to the fact that he was not dreaming of the
escape of the French brig, but far south of the Equator, lying half
stifled in his cot, listening to the roar of a tropic storm, while every
now and then the cabin which he shared with his uncle was lit up by the
vivid flashes, which were succeeded by fresh roars.

"What a storm," thought Rodd, "and how hot!"

He slipped out of his cot to go and thrust open the cabin window.

"Hear the thunder, uncle?" he said.

But