te,
the perwisions is givin' out," says he, in a hoarse voice. "I know it,
sir," says I. It was the wust feature of the case. Thar war Willie
standin' by, mournful-like. I tried to hearten up the Capting a bit, but
'twarn't no use. "I'd ruther be in a whirlpool," says he, "than here.
I'm goin' below. If there's a change call me," says he. So he went
below, and pretty soon I heerd him and the rest of the crew snorin'.
There warn't a solitary blessed thing for the men to do, and they war
all turned in. Willie and me we staid up and watched the heavens of
brass. It might ha' been midnight when I sighted a speck a long ways
off. There warn't no wind, yet it came on wonderful fast. "D'ye see
that, Willie, my boy?" says I. "It are a curus craft." But Willie warn't
asleep. He seen it too. Come near, there war a 'nurmous shell with a
fine hearty old gentleman sittin' in it, and by his side the harndsomest
young lady (barrin' present company) that I ever seed. She war a
beautiful cretur, with black eyes shinin' like stars, and long golden
hair, which she war a-combin' out the snarls. The shell was drawed by
two white sea-horses. Their backs was like great fishes, and their tails
lay on top the water like fishes' tails. Their forrud part war like
horses, and their manes was like tossin' waves. Bless my soul, but they
made a putty pictur. When they was hove close to us the old gentleman
hauled up his horses, and "Helloh!" says he to me. "Helloh!" says I.
"What's the name of this ere wessel?" says he. The "_Blue Turquoise_,"
says I. "Jes so," says he. "Becalmed, ain't ye?" "You're right there,
sir," says I. "What may I call you, sir?" says I. "Oh, I'm Father
Neptune," says he.

_Miss James_. Oh, now, Uncle Jake. That's impossible.

_Ida_. Nothing is impossible. Don't interrupt.

_Uncle Jake_. I'm only tellin' ye what he said. He had a pitchfork in
his hand 'stead of a whip.

_Miss James_. That wasn't a pitchfork. It was a trident, which had three
prongs, and was a symbol of Neptune. Mamma--

_Victoria_. Miss James, you must be a realist. Now, please let the story
go on. Pitchfork it is, Uncle Jake.

_Uncle Jake_. Yes, ma'am, it war. "Well," says I, "that harndsome gal is
Miss Neptune, I suppose." With that the young lady laughed fit to kill.
"Not by a long shot," says she. "I am Miss Lorelei." Then she giv me one
of them piercin' glances of hern, and I shivered. Willie he felt oneasy
too. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," says I.