ubt, and alarm, and evil foreboding. A dim streak lay where the land
had been, and a white gleam quivered from the sunrise on the waves, as
if he were spreading water-lilies instead of scattering roses. As the
earth has its dew that foretells a bright day--whenever the dew is of
the proper sort, for three kinds are established now--so the sea has a
flit of bloom in the early morning (neither a colour, nor a sparkle, nor
a vapour) which indicates peace and content for the day. But now there
was no such fair token upon it, but a heavy and surly and treacherous
look, with lumps here and there; as a man who intends to abuse us
thrusts his tongue to get sharp in his cheek.

Scudamore saw that his poor old boat, scarcely sound enough for the men
of Gotham, was already complaining of the uncouth manners of the strange
place to which she had been carried in the dark. That is to say, she
was beginning to groan, at a very quiet slap in the cheeks, or even a
thoroughly well-meaning push in the rear.

"You are welcome to groan, if you don't strain," exclaimed the heartless
Captain Scuddy.

Even as he spoke he beheld a trickle of water glistening down the
forward bends, and then a little rill, and then a spurt, as if a serious
leak was sprung. He found the source of this, and contrived to caulk
it with a strand of tarred rope for the present; but the sinking of his
knife into the forward timber showed him that a great part of the bows
was rotten. If a head-sea arose, the crazy old frame would be prone to
break in bodily, whereas if he attempted to run before the sea, already
beginning to rise heavily from the west, there was nothing to save the
frail craft from being pooped. On every side it was a bad lookout, there
was every sign of a gale impending, which he could not even hope to
weather, and the only chance of rescue lay in the prompt appearance of
some British ship.

Even in this sad plight his courage and love of native land prevailed
against the acceptance of aid from Frenchmen, if any should approach
to offer it. Rather would he lie at the bottom of the Channel, or drift
about among contending fishes, than become again a prisoner with his
secret in his mind, and no chance of sending it to save his country. As
a forlorn hope, he pulled out a stump of pencil, and wrote on the back
of a letter from his mother a brief memorandum of what he had heard, and
of the urgency of the matter. Then taking a last draught of his tarry
w