A bright-faced, resolute chap,
somewhat younger than Cabot, but of equally sturdy build, held the
tiller, and regarded with evident approval the behaviour of his
speeding craft.
"We'll make it, Dave," he cried, cheerily. "The old 'Sea Bee's' got
the wings of 'em this time."
"Mebbe so," growled the individual addressed, an elderly man who stood
in the companionway, with his head just above the hatch, peering
forward under the swelling sails. "Mebbe so," he repeated, "and mebbe
not. Steam's hard to beat on land or water, an' we be a far cry from
Pretty Harbour yet. So fur that ef they're started they'll overhaul us
before day, and beat us in by a good twelve hour. It's what I'm
looking fur."
"Oh, pshaw!" replied the young skipper. "What a gammy old croaker you
are. They won't start to-day, anyhow. But here, take her a minute,
while I go aloft for one more look before sundown to make sure."
As the man complied with this request, and waddling aft took the
tiller, his more active companion sprang into the main rigging and ran
rapidly to the masthead, from which point of vantage he gazed back for
a full minute over the course they had come.
"Not a sign," he shouted down at length. "But hello," he added to
himself, "what's that?" With a glance seaward his keen eye had
detected a distant floating object that was momentarily uplifted on the
back of a long swell, and flashed white in the rays of the setting sun.
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