"It is, sir."

"Then luff a bit--that will do--fire."

The gun was discharged, and down rushed the black wavering pillar in a
watery _avalanche_, and in a minute after the dark heaving billows
rolled over the spot whereout it arose, as if no such thing had ever
been.

This said troubling of the waters was neither more nor less than a
waterspout, which again is neither more nor less than a whirlwind at
sea, which gradually whisks the water round and round, and up and up,
as you see straws so raised, until it reaches a certain height, when it
invariably breaks. Before this I had thought that waterspout was
created by some next to supernatural exertion of the power of the
Deity, in order to suck up water into the clouds, that they, like the
wine-skins in Spain, might be filled with rain.

The morning after, the weather was clear and beautiful, although the
wind blew half a gale. Nothing particular happened until about seven
o'clock in the evening. I had been invited to dine with the gunroom
officers this day, and every thing was going on smooth and comfortable,
when Mr. Splinter spoke. "I say, master, don't you smell gunpowder?"

"Yes, I do," said the little master, "or something deuced like it."

To explain the particular comfort of our position, it may be right to
mention that the magazine of a brig sloop is exactly under the gunroom.
Three of the American skippers had been quartered on the gunroom mess,