"Wal, I ben a thinkin it all over, an it's my opinion that we'd better go to St. John next. We may hear of him there, an ef he don't turn up we can send out some more vessels, an give warnin that he's astray on the briny biller." "At what time will we be able to leave?" "Wal, it'll not be high tide till near one o'clock, but we can git off ef thar's a wind a leetle before midnight." "Do you think the wind will hold on?" The captain raised his head, and looked at the sky; then he looked out to sea, and then he remained silent for a few minutes. "Wal," said he, at last, slowly and thoughtfully, "it'll take a man with a head as long as a hoss to answer that thar. It mought hold on, an then agin it moughtn't." "At any rate, I suppose we can drift." "O, yes; an of the wind doosn't come round too strong, we can git nigh down pooty close to St. John by mornin." "We'll run down with the tide." "Percisely." "Well, I suppose we'll have to put the time through the best way we can, and try to be patient. Only it seems hard to be delayed so much. First there was the fog, which made our search useless; and now, when there comes a bright day, when we can see where we're going, here we are tied up in Quaco all day and all night." "It doos seem hard," said Captain Corbet, gravely, "terrible hard; an ef I owned a balloon that could rise this here vessel off the ground, an convey her through the air to her nat'ral element, I'd hev it done in five minutes, an we'd all proceed to walk the waters like things of life. But I don't happen to own a balloon, an so thar you air. "But, boys," continued the captain, in a solemn voice, elevating his venerable chin, and regarding them with a patriarchal smile,--"boys, don't begin to go on in that thar old despondent strain. Methinks I hear some on you a repinin, an a frettin, cos we're stuck here hard an fast. Don't do it, boys; take my advice, an don't do it. Bear in mind the stirrin an memiorable events of this here mornin. See what a calamity was a threatenin us. Why, I declare to you all, thar was a time when I expected to see our aged friend Solomon no more in the flesh. You could not tell it by my manner, for I presarved a calm an collected dumeanour; but yet, I tell you, underneath all that icy calm an startlin good-natur of my attitood, I concealed a heart that bet with dark despair. At that moment, when we in our wanderins had reached the furthest extremity that we attained onto, I tell you my blood friz, an my har riz in horror! Methought it were all up with Solomon; and when I see his hat, it seemed to me jest as though I was a regardin with despairin eye his tumestun whereon war graven by no mortial hand the solemn an despairin epigram, 'Hic jacet!'