No wonder that Mr
Vanslyperken was in a bad humour--not only in a bad humour, but in the
very worst of humours. He had made up his mind to go on shore to see his
mother, and was pacing the quarter-deck in his great-coat, with his
umbrella under his arm, all ready to be unfurled as soon as he was on
shore. He was just about to order his boat to be manned: Mr
Vanslyperken looked up at the weather--the fog was still thick, and the
rain fell. You could not even make out the houses on the point. The wind
had gone down considerably. Mr Vanslyperken looked over the gunnel--the
damage was even greater than he thought. He looked over the stern, there
was the stage still hanging where the painters had been standing or
sitting, and, what was too bad, there was a pot of paint, with the brush
in it, half full of rain water, which some negligent person had left
there. Mr Vanslyperken turned forward to call somebody to take the paint
below, but the decks were empty, and it was growing dark. A sudden
thought, instigated no doubt by the devil, filled the brain of Mr
Vanslyperken. It was a glorious, golden opportunity, not to be lost.
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