"Good-day, M.Morrel," said he, as if he had just quitted Marseilles the previous evening, and had just returned from Aix or Toulon.
"Good-day, Penelon," returned Morrel, who could not refrain from smiling through his tears, "where is the captain ?" "The captain, M.Morrel,--he has stayed behind sick at Palma; but please God, it won't be much, and you will see him in a few days all alive and hearty." "Well, now tell your story, Penelon." Penelon rolled his quid in his cheek, placed his hand before his mouth, turned his head, and sent a long jet of tobacco-juice into the antechamber, advanced his foot, balanced himself, and began,--"You see, M.Morrel," said he, "we were somewhere between Cape Blanc and Cape Boyador, sailing with a fair breeze, south-south-west after a week's calm, when Captain Gaumard comes up to me--I was at the helm I should tell you--and says, 'Penelon, what do you think of those clouds coming up over there ?' I was just then looking at them myself.

'What do I think, captain?
Why I think that they are rising faster than they have any business to do, and that they would not be so black if they didn't mean mischief.'-- 'That's my opinion too,' said the captain, 'and I'll take precautions accordingly.

We are carrying too much canvas.

Avast, there, all hands! Take in the studding-sl's and stow the flying jib.' It was time; the squall was on us, and the vessel began to heel.

'Ah,' said the captain, 'we have still too much canvas set; all hands lower the mains'l!' Five minutes after, it was down; and we sailed under mizzen-tops'ls and to'gall'nt sails.