Chasing the Sun | Page 4

The Captain once said to Bob Bowie in a moment of confidence that Mr Sorrel was a "mere spunk," whereupon Bob nodded his head, and added that he was no better than "half a fathom of pump water."
If there was little of Sam, however, that little was good stuff. It has been said that he was a painter by profession. Certainly there was not a more enthusiastic artist in the kingdom. Sam was a strange mixture of earnestness, enthusiasm, and fun. Although as thin as a walking-stick, and almost as flat as a pancake, he was tough like wire, could walk any distance, could leap farther than anybody, and could swim like a cork. His features were sharp, prominent and exceedingly handsome. His eyes were large, dark, and expressive, and were surmounted by delicate eyebrows which moved about continually with every changeful feeling that filled his breast. When excited his glance was magnificent, and the natural wildness of his whole aspect was increased by the luxuriance of his brown hair, which hung in long elf-locks over his shoulders. Among his intimates he was known by the name of "Mad Sam Sorrel."
When we have said that the crew of the schooner consisted of six picked men besides those described and our friend Bob Bowie, we have enumerated all the human beings who stood within the bulwarks of that trim little yacht on that stormy summer's day.
There was, however, one other being on board that deserves notice. It was Sam Sorrel's dog.
Like its master, this dog was a curious creature. It was little and thin, and without form of any distinct or positive kind. If we could suppose that this dog had been permitted to make itself, and that it had begun with the Skye-terrier, suddenly changed its mind and attempted to come the poodle, then midway in this effort had got itself very much dishevelled, and become so entangled that it was too late to do anything better than finish off with a wild attempt at a long-eared spaniel, one could understand how such a creature as "Titian" had come into existence.
Sam had meant to pay a tribute of respect to the great painter when he named his dog Titian. But having done his duty in this matter, he found it convenient to shorten the name into Tit--sometimes Tittles. Tittles had no face whatever, as far as could be seen by the naked eye. His whole misshapen body was covered with long shaggy hair of a light grey colour. Only the end of his black nose was visible in front and the extreme point of his tail in rear. But for these two landmarks it would have been utterly impossible to tell which end of the dog was which.
Somehow the end of his tail had been singed or skinned or burned, for it was quite naked, and not much thicker than a pipe-stem.
Tittles was extremely sensitive in regard to this, and could not bear to have his miserable projection touched.
How that storm did rage, to be sure! The whole sea was lashed into a boiling sheet of foam, and the schooner lay over so much that it was impossible for the men to stand on the deck. At times it seemed as if she were thrown on her beam-ends; but the good yacht was buoyant as a cork, and she rose again from every fresh blast like an unconquerable warrior.
"It seems to me that the masts will be torn out of her," said Temple to the Captain, as he grasped the brass rail that surrounded the quarterdeck, and gazed upward with some anxiety.
"No fear o' her," said the Captain, turning the quid of tobacco in his cheek; "she's a tight boat, an' could stand a heavier sea than this. I hope it'll blow a wee thing harder."
"Harder!" exclaimed Fred.
"You must be fond of wind, Captain," observed Grant with a laugh.
"Oo ay, I've no objection to wund."
The Captain said this, as he said everything else, more than half through his nose, and very slowly.
"But do you not think that more wind would be apt to carry away our top-masts, or split the sails?" said Temple.
"It's not unlikely," was the Captain's cool reply.
"Then why wish for it?" inquired the other in surprise.
"Because we're only thirty miles from the coast of Norway, and if the wund holds on as it's doin', we'll not make the land till dark. But if it blows harder we'll get under the shelter of the Islands in daylight."
"Dark!" exclaimed poor Sam Sorrel, who, being a bad sailor, was very sick, and clung to the lee bulwarks with a look of helpless misery; "I thought there was no dark in Nor--."
The unhappy painter stopped abruptly in consequence of a sensation in the pit of his stomach.
"There's not much darkness in