"I might have guessed that, myself." "So I s'pose, sir; nobody is better at guessing and divining than Mr. Dodge." "But in what part of the Channel are we, Saunders?" "About the middle, sir." "How far have we come to night?" "From Portsmouth Roads to this place, sir." Mr. Dodge was satisfied, and the steward, who would not have dared to be so explicit with any other cabin-passenger, continued coolly to mix an omelette. The next attack was made from the same room, by Sir George Templemore. "Steward, my good fellow, do you happen to know whereabouts we are?" "Certainly, sir; the land is still werry obwious." "Are we getting on cleverly?" "_Nicely_, sir;" with a mincing emphasis on the first word, that betrayed there was a little waggery about the grave-looking mulatto. "And the sloop-of-war, steward?" "Nicely too, sir." There was a shuffling in the state-room, followed by a silence. The door of Mr. Sharp's room was now opened an inch or two, and the following questions issued through the crevice: "Is the wind favourable, steward?" "Just her character, sir." "Do you mean that the wind is favourable?" "For the Montauk, sir; she's a persuader in this breeze." "But is she going in the direction we wish?" "If the gentleman wishes to perambulate America, it is probable he will get there with a little patience." Mr. Sharp pulled-to his door, and ten minutes passed without further questions; the steward beginning to hope the morning catechism was over, though he grumbled a wish that gentlemen would "turn out" and take a look for themselves. Now, up to this moment, Saunders knew no more, than those who had just been questioning him of the particular situation of the ship, in which he floated as indifferent to the whereabouts and the winds, as men sail in the earth along its orbit, without bethinking them of parallaxes, nodes, ecliptics, and solstices. Aware that it was about time for the captain to be heard, he sent a subordinate on deck, with a view to be ready to meet the usual questions from his commander. A couple of minutes were sufficient to put him _au courant_ of the real state of things. The next door that opened was that of Paul Blunt, however, who thrust his head into the cabin, with all his dark curls in the confusion of a night scene. "Steward!" "Sir. "How's the wind?" "Quite exhilarating, sir." "From what quarter?" "About south, sir" "Is there much of it?" "A prewailing breeze, sir." "And the sloop?" "She's to leeward, sir, operating along as fast as she can." "Steward!" "Sir," stepping hurriedly out of his pantry, in order to hear more distinctly. "Under what sail are we?" "Topgallant sails, sir." "How's her head?" "West-south-west, sir." "Delicious! Any news of the rover?" "Hull down to leeward, sir, and on our quarter. "Staggering along, eh?" "Quite like a disguised person, sir." "Better still. Hurry along that breakfast of yours, sir; I am as hungry as a Troglodyte."