‘Well, sir,’ said Finn, taking it upon himself to interpret my glance, ‘I know the “Bride,” and I’m likewise acquainted with a good many vessels which ain’t the least bit in the world like her, and my notion’s this, that a craft’ll do no more than she _can_ do. I’ve hove the log to reefed canvas, and I’ve hove it in the same wind to whole sails and found a loss. No use of burying what you want to keep afloat. I might set that there little top-gallant sail without enjoying a hinch of way more out of it. Then what ’ud be the good of straining the spars?’ ‘But you’ll be setting stun’ sails, I suppose, when a right chance for running them aloft occurs?’ ‘Ay, sir. There’s the boom irons all ready. But my notion is, in a vessel of this sort, that it’s best to keep your stun’ sail booms out of sight till your anchors are stowed. Once out of soundings, and then let a man cut what capers he likes.’ As he said this, up rose my cousin’s long body through the companion hatch. He stood a little looking about him in his short-sighted way, but with an expression of satisfaction upon his face that gave a new character to it. I saw him rub his hands whilst he grinned to the swift salt rush of the wind. He caught sight of me, and instantly approached. ‘This will do! this will do, Charles!’ he cried, grasping my hand. ‘Don’t spare her, captain. These are slants to be made the most of. By Heaven, but it makes a new man of me to see such a sight as _that_!’ pointing to the white torrent that was roaring past to leeward. He stared with a sort of pathetic eagerness at the vessels which we were passing as though they had their anchors down, afterwards shading his eyes for another long yearning look over either bow. ‘It is fine, though! it is fine, though!’ he muttered with the spirit of an unreasonable exhilaration working strong in every feature. ‘What is it, captain? Twelve?’ Finn gave him the figure. ‘And what would be the “Shark’s” pace supposing her yonder?’ ‘Not all ours, Sir Wilfrid, not all ours,’ responded Finn, ‘though it is a fine sailing breeze, your honour. A craft would have to be a sawed-off-square consarn not to wash handsomely along this morning, sir.’ ‘How have you slept, Wilfrid?’ said I. ‘Well,’ he answered. ‘But I say, Charles, what do you think?’ said he with a sudden boyish air that startled me with its suggestion of stupidity in him. ‘Muffin is drunk.’ ‘Drunk!’ cried I; ‘but who the deuce is Muffin?’ forgetting the name. ‘Why, my man,’ he answered; ‘my valet. It’s very odd. I thought at first it was sea-sickness. He’s been crying. The tears, I give you my word, streamed down his cheeks. He begs to be set ashore, and swears that if he should choke with one of the fish that are swimming about in him, his mother and two sisters would have to go to the Union. Do you think he’s mad?’ ‘Drunk, and sea-sick, too,’ said I. ‘Has he not been away with you on a yachting trip before?’