"wait and wait till
to-morrow before you despair. The captain's promises have all been
fulfilled up to now with the greatest regularity, and there's no
reason to believe we shan't be made acquainted with our destination
when the proper time comes. I haven't the slightest doubt that
to-morrow we shall be sailing in the Irish Channel, and I propose
we drink a last grog to our pleasant voyage. It begins in an
unaccountable fashion, but with sailors like you there are a thousand
chances that it will end well."

And all four drank to their safe return.

"Now, commander," continued Johnson, "if you will allow me to advise
you, you will prepare everything to start; the crew must think that
you know what you are about. If you don't get a letter to-morrow,
set sail; do not get up the steam, the wind looks like holding out,
and it will be easy enough to sail; let the pilot come on board; go
out of the docks with the tide, and anchor below Birkenhead; our men
won't be able to communicate with land, and if the devil of a letter
comes it will find us as easily there as elsewhere."

"By heavens! you are right, Johnson!" cried the doctor, holding out
his hand to the old sailor.

"So be it," answered Shandon.

Then each one entered his cabin, and waited in feverish sleep for
the rising of the sun. The next day the first distribution of letters
took place in the town, and not one bore the address of the commander,
Richard Shandon. Nevertheless, he made his preparations for
departure, and the news spread at once all over Liverpool, and, as
we have already seen, an extraordinary affluence of spectators
crowded the wharfs of New Prince's Docks. Many of them came on board
to shake hands for the last time with a comrade, or to try and dissuade
a friend, or to take a look at the brig, and to know its destination;
they were disappointed at finding the commander more taciturn and
reserved than ever. He had his reasons for that.

Ten o'clock struck. Eleven followed. The tide began to go out that
day at about one o'clock in the afternoon. Shandon from the top of
the poop was looking at the crowd with uneasy eyes, trying to read
the secret of his destiny on one of the faces. But in vain. The sailors
of the _Forward_ executed his orders in silence, looking at him all
the time, waiting for orders which did not come. Johnson went on
preparing for departure. The weather was cloudy and the sea rough;
a south-easter blew with violence, but it wa