"What is the meaning of this ?" he wondered.

His enormous meal had made him drowsy; and deciding that, if not allowed to speak, he might at least nod, he closed his eyes.
He opened them again with a start.

From the shore behind them the roar of guns had just burst out upon the night.
This was his first impression; but the sound was not repeated, and in a moment or two he fancied he must have been dreaming of the salute he had heard in the lazarette of the _Good Intent_, as the squadron sailed out of Harwich.

The boat was still moving with unabated speed, and the dark, choppy water stretched all round them.
Through the murky night the ships' lanterns still shone steadily enough, but farther off than before, and at a sharp angle behind his right shoulder.
"It seems we are not steering very straight for the fleet," he could not help remarking.
"We are not steering for the fleet," said his father.
"But I thought--" He broke off as a series of sharp flashes danced out in the distance, followed by the rattle of musketry and a dull, confused shouting.
"You perceive," Captain Salt remarked, "that the squadron is not the safest means of reaching Harwich." "What are they doing out there ?" "They are killing each other." "That sounds very unpleasant." "And as the night is too dark to distinguish faces with any certainty, I thought you would prefer to go home by another way." "A longer way ?" "It is certainly a trifle longer; but then, as it won't expose you to the risk of being killed--" "That's true.

I won't grudge the time." The explosions of musketry, meanwhile, had been following each other faster and faster, and at length became incessant.
"Bravo!" muttered Captain Salt to himself; "this will take some time to quell." "What did you say ?" "I was thinking, my son, that 'tis lucky you have somebody to look after you." Tristram sought for his father's hand and pressed it.