Come o'er the sea,
Maiden with me,
Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows.
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same wherever it goes.
Is not the sea
Made for the free,
Land for courts and chains alone?
Here we are slaves;
But on the waves
Love and liberty's all our own.
MOORE'S _Melodies._
Mr. Maurice Rankin was enjoying his summer vacation. Although the courts
were closed he still could be seen carrying his blue bag through the
street on his way to and from the police court and other places. It is
true that, for ordinary professional use, the bag might have been
abandoned, but how was he to know when a sprat might catch a whale?--to
say nothing of the bag's being so convenient for the secret and
non-committal transportation of those various and delectable viands that
found their way to his aerial abode at No. 173 Tremaine Buildings. He
was now provided by the law printers with pamphlet copies of the
decisions in different courts, and a few of these might always be found
in his bag. They served to fill out to the proper dimensions this badge
of a rank entitling him to the affix of esquire, and they had been well
oiled by parcels of butter or chops which, on warm days, tried to
lubricate this dry brain food as if for greater rapidity in the bolting
of it.
In this way he was passing his summer vacation. Many a time he thought
of his father's wealth before his failure and death. Where had those
thousands melted away to? Oh, for just one of the thousands to set him
on his feet! This perpetual grind, this endless seeking for work, with
no more hope in it than to be able to get even with his butcher's bill
at the end of the month! To see every person else go away for an outing
somewhere while he remained behind began to make him dispirited. The
buoyancy of his nature, which at first could take all his trials as a
joke, was beginning to wear off. After yielding himself to their
peculiar piquancy for six months, these jokes seemed to have lost their
first freshness, and he longed to get away somewhere for a little
change. The return, then, he thought, would be with renewed spirit.
While thinking over these matters his step homeward was tired and slow.
He was by no means robust, and his narrow face had grown more hatchety
than ever in the last few hot days. Hope deferred was beginning to tell
upon him, but a surprise awaited him.
Jack Cresswell and Charley Dusenall were walking at this time on the
other side of the street. They sighted Rankin going along gloomily,
with his nose on the ground, well dressed and neat as usual, but
weighted down, apparently with business, really with loneliness, law
reports, and lamb-chops.
They both pointed to him at once. Jack said, "The very man!" and Charlie
said, nodding assent, "Just as good as the next." Jack clapped Charley
on the back--"By Jove, I hope he will come! Do him all the good in the
world."
Charley was one of those happy-go-lucky, loose-living young men who have
companions as long as their money lasts, and who seem made of some
transmutable material which, when all things are favorable, shows some
suggestion of solidity, but, when acted upon by the acid of poverty,
degenerates into something like that parasitic substance remarkable for
its receptibility of liquids, called a sponge. He liked Rankin, although
he thought him a queer fish, and he would laugh with the others when
Rankin's quiet satire was pointed at himself, not knowing but that there
might be a joke somewhere, and not wishing to be out of it.
The two young men crossed the road and walked up to Rankin who was just
about to enter Tremaine Buildings. Charlie asked him to come on a
yachting cruise around Lake Ontario--to be ready in two days--that Jack
would tell him all about it, as he was in a hurry. He then made off,
without waiting for Maurice to reply.
Jack explained to Rankin that the yacht was to take out a party, with
the young ladies under the chaperonage of Mrs. Dusenall, that the two
Misses Dusenall, and Nina and Margaret were going, that he and Geoffrey
Hampstead and two or three of the yacht-club men would lend a hand to
work the craft, and that Rankin would be required to take the helm
during the dead calms. As Rankin listened he brightened up and looked
along the street in meditation.
"The business," he said thoughtfully, "will perish. Bean can't run my
business."
His large mouth spread over his face as he yielded himself to the warmth
of the sunny vista before him. Already he felt himself dancing over the
waves. Suddenly, as they stood at the entrance to Tremaine Buildings, he
caught Jack by the arm and whispered--so that clients, thronging the
streets might not overhear:
"The business," he whispered. "What about it?" He drew off at arm's
length and transfixed Jack with his eagle eye. Then, as if to typify his
sudden and reckless abandonment of all the great trusts reposed in him,
he slung the blue bag as far as he could up the stairs while he cried
that the business might "go to the devil."
"Correct," said Jack. "It will be all safe with him. You know he is the
father of lawyers. But I say, old chap, I am awfully glad you are coming
with us. You see, the old lady has to get those girls married off
somehow, and several fellows will go with us who are especially picked
out for the business. Then, of course, the Dusenall girls want
'backing,' and they thought Nina and I could certainly give them a lead.
And Nina would not go without Margaret. I rather think, too, that
Geoffrey would not go without Margaret. Wheels within wheels, you see.
Have you not got a lady-love, Morry, to bring along? No? Well, I tell
you, old man, I expect to enjoy myself. I've been round that lake a good
many times, but never with Nina."
Jack blushed as he admitted so much to his old friend, and after a pause
he went on, with a young man's facile change of thought, to talk about
the yacht.
"And we will just make her dance, and don't you forget it."
"But, my dear fellow, won't she object?"
"Object? No--likes it. She is coming out in a brand-new suit. Wait till
you see her. She'll be a dandy."
"I can quite believe that she will appear more beautiful than ever,"
said Maurice, rather mystified.
"She is as clean as a knife, clean as a knife. I tell you, Morry, her
shape just fills the eye. She--"
"Oh, yes, I understand. You are speaking of the yacht. I thought when
you said you would make her dance that you referred to Miss Lindon.
Excuse my ignorance of yachting terms. I know absolutely nothing about
them."
"Never mind, old man, you might easily make the mistake. Talking of
dancing now, I had a turn with her the other day and I will say this
much--that she can waltz and no mistake. You could steer her with one
finger."
"And shall we rig this spinnaker boom on her?" asked Rankin, with
interest. "What is a spinnaker boom? I have always wanted to know."
"Spinnaker on who? or what?" cried Jack, looking vexed. "Don't be an
ass, Rankin."
"My dear fellow--a thousand pardons--I certainly presumed you still
spoke of the yacht. It is perfectly impossible to understand which you
refer to."
"Well, perhaps it is," replied Jack; "I mix the two up in my speech just
as they are mixed up in my heart, and I love them both. So let us have a
glass of sherry to them in my room."
"I think," said Rankin, smiling, with his head on one side, "that to
prevent further confusion we ought to drink a glass to each love
separately, in order to discriminate sufficiently between the different
interests."
"Happy thought," said Jack. "And just like you robbers. Every interest
must be represented. Fees out of the estate, every time."
After gulping down the first glass of sherry in the American fashion,
they sat sipping the second as the Scotch and English do. It struck
Rankin as peculiar that Mr. Lindon allowed Nina to go off on this
yachting cruise when he must know that Jack would be on board. He asked
him how he accounted for his luck in this respect.
Jack said: "I can not explain it altogether to myself. The old boy sent
her off to Europe to get her away from me, and that little manoeuvre
was not successful in making her forget me. I think that now he has
washed his hands of the matter, and lets her do entirely as she
pleases--except as to matrimony. They don't converse together on the
subject of your humble servant. He is fond of Nina in his own way--when
his ambition is not at stake. One thing I feel sure of, that we might
wait till crack of doom before his consent to our marriage would be
obtained. I never knew such a man for sticking to his own opinion."
"But you could marry now and keep a house, in a small way," said Rankin.
"Too small a way for Nina. She knows no more of economy than a babe. No;
I may have been unwise, from a practical view, to fall in love with her,
but the affair must go on now; we will get married some way or other.
Perhaps the old boy will die. At any rate, although I have no doubt she
would go in for 'love in a cottage,' I don't think it would be right of
me to subject her to the loss of her carriage, servants, entertainments,
and gay existence generally. Of course she would be brave over it, but
the effort would be very hard upon the dear little woman."
When Jack thought of Nina his heart was apt to lose some of its
chronometer movement. He turned and began fumbling for his pipe.
Maurice wished to pull him together, as it were, and said, as he grasped
the decanter and filled the wine glasses again:
"Thank you; I don't mind if I do. Now I come to think of it, your first
proposed toast was the right one. For the next three weeks at least we
do not intend to separate the lady from the yacht. Why should we drink
them separately? Ho, ho! we will drink to them collectively!" He waved
his glass in the air. "Here's to The Lady and the Yacht considered as
one indivisible duo. May they be forever as entwined in our hearts as
they are incomprehensibly mixed up in our language!"
"Hear, hear!" cried Jack, with renewed spirit. "Drink hearty!" And then
he energetically poured out another, and said "Tiger!"--after which they
lit cigars and went out, feeling happy and much refreshed, while Rankin
quite forgot the blue bag and the contents thereof yielding rich juices
to the law-reports in the usual way.
About ten o'clock on the following Saturday morning valises were being
stowed away on board the yacht Ideal, and maidens fair and sailors free
were aglow with the excitement of departure. The yacht was swinging at
her anchor while the new cruising mainsail caused her to careen gently
as the wind alternately caught each side of the snowy canvas. A large
blue ensign at the peak was flapping in the breeze, impatient for the
start, while the main-sheet bound down and fettered the plunging and
restless sail. Lounging about the bows of the vessel were a number of
professional sailors with Ideal worked across the breasts of their stout
blue jerseys. The headsails were loosed and ready to go up, and the
patent windlass was cleared to wind up the anchor chain. Away aloft at
the topmast head the blue peter was promising more adventures and a new
enterprise, while grouped about the cockpit were our friends in varied
garb, some of whom nervously regarded the plunging mainsail which
refused to be quieted. Rankin was the last to come over the side, clad
in a dark-blue serge suit, provided at short notice by the
long-suffering Score. His leather portmanteau, lent by Jack, had
scarcely reached the deck before the blocks were hooked on and the gig
was hoisted in to the davits. Margaret, sitting on the bulwarks, with an
arm thrown round a backstay to steady her, was taking in all the
preparations with quiet ecstasy, her eyes following every movement aloft
and her lips softly parted with sense of invading pleasure.
Mrs. Dusenall was down in the after-cabin making herself more busy than
useful. Instead of leaving everything to the steward, the good woman was
unpacking several baskets which had found their way aft by mistake. In a
very clean locker devoted solely to charts she stowed away five or six
pies, wedging them, thoughtfully, with a sweet melon to keep them quiet.
Then she found that the seats at the side could be raised, and here she
placed a number of articles where they stood a good chance of slipping
under the floor and never being seen again. Fortunately for the party,
her pride in her work led her to point out what she had done to the
steward, who, speechless with dismay, hastily removed everything eatable
from her reach.
As the anchor left its weedy bed, the brass carronade split the air in
salute to the club and the blue ensign dipped also, while the headsail
clanked and rattled up the stay. There was nobody at the club house, but
the ladies thought that the ceremony of departure was effective.
Jack was at the wheel as she paid off on the starboard tack toward the
eastern channel, and Geoffrey and others were slacking off the
main-sheet when Rankin heard himself called by Jack, who said hurriedly:
"Morry, will you let go that lee-backstay?"
Maurice and Margaret left it immediately and stood aside. Jack forgot,
in the hurry of starting, that Rankin knew nothing of sailing, and
called louder to him again, pointing to the particular rope: "Let go
that lee-backstay."
"Who's touching your lee-backstay?" cried Morry indignantly.
The boom was now pressing strongly on the stay, while Jack, seeing his
mistake, leaned over and showed Rankin what to do. He at once cast off
the rope from the cleat, and, there being a great strain on it, the end
of it when loosed flew through his fingers so fast that it felt as if
red hot.
"Holy Moses!" cried he, blowing on his fingers, "that rope must have
been lying on the stove." He examined the rope again, and remarked that
it was quite cool now. The pretended innocence of the little man was
deceiving. The Honorable Marcus Travers Head, one of the rich intended
victims of the Dusenalls, leaned over to Jack and asked who and what
Rankin was.
"He's an original--that's what he is," said Jack, with some pride in his
friend, although Rankin's by-play was really very old.
"What! ain't he soft?" inquired the Hon. M. T., with surprise.
"About as soft as that brass cleat," said Jack shortly. "I say, old
Emptyhead, you just keep your eye open when he's around and you'll learn
something."
There was a murmur of "Ba-a Jeuve!" and the honorable gentleman regarded
Rankin in a new light.
The Ideal was a sloop of more than ordinary size, drawing about eight
feet of water without the small center-board, which she hardly required
for ordinary sailing. Her accommodations were excellent, and her
internal fittings were elegant, without being so wildly expensive as in
some of the American yachts. Her comparatively small draught of water
enabled her to enter the shallow ports on the lakes, and yet she was
modeled somewhat like a deep-draught boat, having some of her ballast
bolted to her keel, like the English yachts. Her cruising canvas was
bent on short spars, which relieved the crew in working her, but, even
with this reduction, her spread of canvas was very large, so that her
passage across the bay toward the lake was one of short duration.
To Margaret and Maurice the spirited start which they made was one of
unalloyed delight. For two such fresh souls "delight" is quite the
proper word. They crossed over to the weather side and sat on the
bulwarks, where they could command a view of the whole boat. It was a
treat for all hands to see their bright faces watching the man aloft
cast loose the working gaff-topsail. When they heard his voice in the
sky calling out "Hoist away," Morry waved his hand with _abandon_ and
called out also "Hoist away," as if he would hoist away and overboard
every care he knew of, and when the booming voice aloft cried "Sheet
home," it was as good as five dollars to see Margaret echo the word with
commanding gesture--only she called it "Sea foam," which made the
sailors turn their quids and snicker quietly among themselves. But when
the huge cream-colored jib-topsail went creaking musically up from the
bowsprit-end, filling and bellying and thundering away to leeward, and
growing larger and larger as it climbed to the topmast head, their
admiration knew no bounds. As the sail was trimmed down, they felt the
good ship get her "second wind," as it were, for the rush out of the
bay. It was as if sixteen galloping horses had been suddenly harnessed
to the boat, and Margaret fairly clapped her hands. Maurice called to
Jack approvingly:
"You said you would make her dance."
"She's going like a scalded pup," cried Jack poetically in reply, and he
held her down to it with the wheel, tenderly but firmly, as he thereby
felt the boat's pulse. When they came to the eastern channel Jack eased
her up so close to the end of the pier that Maurice involuntarily
retreated from the bulwarks for fear she would hit the corner. The
jib-topsail commenced to thunder as the yacht came nearer the wind, but
this was soon silenced, and half a dozen men on the main-sheet flattened
in the after-canvas as she passed between the crib-work at the sides of
the channel in a way that gave one a fair opportunity for judging her
speed.
A moment more and the Ideal was surging along the lake swells, as if she
intended to arrive "on time" at any place they pointed her for. The
main-sheet was paid out as Jack bore away to take the compass course for
Cobourg. This put the yacht nearly dead before the wind, and the pace
seemed to moderate. Charlie Dusenall then came on deck, after settling
his dunnage below and getting into his sailing clothes. Charlie had been
"making a night of it" previous to starting, and felt this morning
indisposed to exert himself. Jack and he had cruised together in all
weathers, and they were both good enough sailors to dispense with
pig-headed sailing-masters. Jack had sailed everything, from a
birch-bark canoe to a schooner of two hundred tons, and had never lost
his liking for a good deal of hard work on board a boat. As for his
garb, an old flannel shirt and trousers that greased masts could not
spoil were all that either he or Charlie ever wore. These, with the
yachting shoes, broad Scotch bonnet, belt, and sheath-knife, were found
sufficient, without any finical white jackets and blue anchors, and, if
not so fresh as they might have been, these garments certainly looked
like business.
Before young Dusenall put his head up the companion-way he knew exactly
where the boat was by noticing her motions while below. There was
something of the "old salt" in the way he understood how the yacht was
running without coming on deck to find out. Generally he could wake up
at night and tell you how the boat was sailing, and almost what canvas
she was carrying, without getting out of his berth. These things had
become a sort of second nature.
He was yawning as he hauled on a stout chain and dragged up from his
trousers pocket a silver watch about the size of a mud-turtle. Then he
looked at the wake through the long following waves and glanced rapidly
over the western horizon while he counted with his finger upon the face
of the enormous timepiece. "We will have to do better than this," he
said, after making a calculation, "if we wish to dance at the Arlington
to-night."
"They are just getting the spinnaker on deck," said Jack, nodding toward
the bows. "As you say, it won't do her any harm. This breeze will
flatten out at sundown, and walloping about in a dead calm all night is
no fun."
"What a time they take to get a sail set!" said Charlie impatiently, as
he looked at the sailors for a few moments. "I have a good mind to ask
some of you fellows to go forward and show them how."
"Oh, never mind," said Jack, "We are not racing, and hurrying them only
makes them sulky."
But Charlie's nerves were a little irritable to-day, and he swung
himself on deck and went forward. A long boom was lowered out over the
side and properly guyed; then a long line of sail, tied in stops, went
up and up to the topmast-head; the foot of it was hauled out to the end
of the boom; then there was a pull on a rope, and, as the wind broke
away the stops, hundreds of yards of sail spread out as if by magic to
the breeze, filling away forward like a huge three-cornered balloon, the
foot of which almost swept the surface of the water.
"Look at that for a sail, Nina," said Jack. "Now you'll see her git
right up and git."
When Jack was talking about yachts or sailing it was next to impossible
for him to speak in anything but a jargon of energetic slang and
metaphor picked up among the sailors, who, in their turn, picked up all
they could while ashore. He seemed to take a pleasure in throwing the
English grammar overboard. His heart warmed to sailors. He was fond of
their oddities and forcible unpolished similes; and when he sometimes
sought their society for a while, he was well received. When a man in
good clothes begins to talk sailing grammatically to lake-sailors they
seem to feel that he is not, as far as they can see, in any way up to
the mark. His want of accuracy in sailing vernacular attaches to his
whole character.
If Jack intended to say that the spinnaker would make the Ideal go fast,
he was right. She was traveling down the lake almost as fast as she
would go in a race with the same breeze. A long thin line of fine white
bubbles extending back over the tops of several blue waves showed where
her keel had divided the water and rubbed it into white powder as she
passed. Jack had no time for continued conversation now. He had to watch
his compass and the sails, the wind, and the land. He did not wish the
wake behind the vessel to look like a snake-fence from bad steering, and
to get either of the sails aback, while under such a pressure, would be
a pretty kettle of fish. He was enjoying himself. Some good Samaritan
handed him a pipe filled and lighted, and with his leg slung comfortably
over the shaft of the wheel, his pipe going, Nina in front of him, and
all his friends around him, he felt that the moment could hardly be
improved.
Some time after the buildings of Toronto had dwindled away to nothing,
and the thin spire of St. James's Cathedral had become a memory, the
steward announced that luncheon was ready. One of the hands relieved
Jack at the wheel, and all went below except Mrs. Dusenall, who was left
lying among cushions and pillows arranged comfortably on deck, where she
preferred to remain, as she was feeling the motion of the boat.
Luncheon was a movable feast on the Ideal--as liable to be shifted about
as the hands of a wayward clock. The cabin was prettily decorated with
flowers, and the table, weighted so as to remain always horizontal, was
covered with snowy linen and delicate glass, while a small conceit full
of cut flowers faced each of the guests. The steward and stewardess
buzzed about with bottles and plates, and any appetite that could not
have been tempted must have been in a bad way. The absence of that
apology for a chaperon, who was trying to enjoy the breezes overhead,
gave the repast an informality which the primness of the Misses Dusenall
soon failed to check, although at first their precise intonations and
carefully copied English accent did something to restrain undue hilarity
on the part of those who did not know them well.
The idea of being able to entertain in this style gave the Misses
Dusenall an inflation which at first showed itself in a conversation and
manner touchingly English. The average English maiden, though by nature
sufficiently insular in manner and speech, is taught to be more so. The
result is that among strangers she rarely seems quite certain of
herself, as if anxious lest she should wreck herself on a slip of the
tongue or the sounding of a false note. Her prudish manners and her
perfect knowledge of what not to say often suggest Swift's definition of
"a nice man." One trembles to think what effect the emancipation of
marriage will have upon some of these wildly innocent creatures. In
Canada, and especially in the United States, we are thankful to take
some things for granted, without the advertisement of a manner which
seems to say: "I am so awfully pure and carefully brought up, don't you
know."
The Misses Dusenall on this occasion soon found themselves in a minority
(not the minority of Matthew Arnold), and before leaving the table they
adopted some of that more genial manner and speech which, if slightly
faulty, we are satisfied to consider as "good enough for the colonies."
Maurice seemed to expand as the English fog gradually lifted. The aged
appearance that anxiety was giving him had disappeared. Amid the chatter
going on, in which it was difficult to get an innings, Jack Cresswell
seized a bottle of claret and called out that he proposed a toast.
"What? toasts at such an informal luncheon as this, Jack?" exclaimed
Propriety, with the accent somewhat worn off.
"What's the odds as long as you're happy and the 'rosy' is close at
hand?" said Jack. "Besides, this is a case of necessity--"
"I propose that we have a series of toasts," interrupted Charlie; who
was beginning to feel himself again. "With all their necessary
subdivisions," added Rankin, in his incisive little voice, which could
always make itself heard.
"There you are again, Rankin," cried Jack. "I proposed a toast with
Rankin two days ago, ladies, and, as I live by bread, he subdivided it
sixteen times."
Dusenall was calling for a bottle of Seltzer water.
"Never mind your soda," commanded Jack. "Soda can't do justice to this
toast. I propose this toast because I regard it as one of absolute
necessity--"
"They all are," called Maurice.
"Gentlemen, I must protest against my learned friend's interrup--"
"Go on, Jack. Don't protest. Propose. I am getting thirsty," cried
Hampstead's voice among a number of others.
"Well, gentlemen, am I to proceed or not? Have I the floor, or not?"
"That's just what he said after those sixteen horns," said Rankin,
addressing the party confidentially. "Only, then he did not 'have the
floor,' the floor had him."
His absurdity increased the hubbub, as Jack rapped on the table to
command attention.
"The toast I am about to propose is one of absolute neces--"
"Oh, my!" groaned Rankin, "give me something in the mean time." He
grasped a bottle, as if in desperation. "All right, now. Go on, Jack.
Don't mind me."
The orator went on, smiling:
"It is, as I think I have said before, one of absolute--"
Here the disturbance threatened to put an end to the proposed toast.
"Take a new deal."
"Got any more toasts like this?"
"Oh, I would like a smoke soon. Hurry up, Jack."
"Well, ladies and gentlemen," said Jack, banging on the table to quell
the tumult; "I will skip over the objectionable words, and propose that
we drink to the health of one who has been unable to be with us to-day,
and who needs our assistance; who perhaps at this moment is suffering
untold troubles far from our midst. Ladies and gentlemen, have you
charged your glasses?"
Answers of "Frequently."
"Well, then," said Jack, as he stood with a bottle in one hand and a
glass in the other, "I ask you to drink with me to the health of 'The
Chaperon,' who is nigh unto death."
All stood up, and were loudly echoing, "The Chaperon--nigh unto death!"
when a long hand came down the skylight overhead and a voice was heard
from on high, saying:
"Nothing of the kind. How dare you, you bad boy? Just put something into
my hand and I'll drink my own health. I don't need your assistance at
all."
Cheers broke out from the noisy gathering, and they all rushed on deck
to see Mrs. Dusenall drink her own health, which she bravely
accomplished.
They were a riotous lot. All the boat wanted was a policeman to keep
them in something more like order, for a small joke received too much
credit with them, and they laughed too easily.
Frenchman's Bay and Whitby were passed before they came up from lunch.
Oshawa could be seen far away on the shore, as the yacht buzzed along
with unabated speed. A speck on the horizon had risen up out of the sea
to be called Raby Head--the sand-bluff near Darlington. Small yellow and
green squares on the far-off brown uplands that rolled back from the
shores denoted that there were farms in that vicinity; dark-blue spots,
like feathery tufts, appeared here and there where the timber forests
had been left untouched, and among them small marks or lines of white
would occasionally appear where, on looking through the glasses, little
railway trains seemed to be toiling like ants across the landscape.
There was no ceremony to be observed, nor could it be seen that anybody
endeavored to keep up conversations which required any effort. The men,
lounging about on the white decks, seemed to smoke incessantly while
they watched the water hissing along the sides of the vessel, or lay on
their backs and watched the masthead racing with the white clouds down
the lake, and the girls, disposed on cushions, tried to read novels and
failed. The sudden change to the fresh breezes of the lake, and the long
but spirited rise and fall of the vessel made them soon doze away, or
else remain in that peaceful state of mind which does not require books
or masculine society or music, or anything else except a continuation of
things just as they are. Granby and Newcastle were mentioned as the
yacht passed by, but most of the party were drowsy, and few even raised
their heads to see what little could be seen. Port Hope created but
feeble interest, though the Gull Light, perched on the rocks far out in
the lake, appeared romantic and picturesque. It seemed like true
yachting to be approaching a strange lighthouse sitting like a white
seabird on the dangerous-looking reefs, where the waves could be seen
dashing up white and frothy.
Somewhere off Port Hope, about three or four miles away from the "Gull,"
one of the sailors had quietly remarked to the man at the wheel:
"We're a-goin' to run out of the wind."
Margaret was interested in this, wondering how the man knew. Far away in
front and to the eastward could be seen a white haze that obliterated
the horizon, and, as the yacht bore down to the Gull Light, one could
see that beyond a certain defined line stretching across the lake the
bright sparkle and blueness of the waves ceased, and, beyond, was a
white heaving surface of water, without a ripple on it to mark one
distance from another. It seemed strange that the wind blowing so
freshly directly toward this calm portion of the lake should not ruffle
it. The yacht went straight on before the wind at the same pace till she
crossed the dividing line and passed with her own velocity into the dead
air on the other side. The sails, out like wings, seemed at once to fill
on the wrong side, as if the breeze had come ahead, and this stopped her
headway. She soon came to a standstill. Every person at once
awoke--feeling some of that numbness experienced in railway trains when,
after running forty miles an hour for some time, the brakes are suddenly
put on.
For half an hour the yacht lay within pistol-shot of the dancing,
sparkling waves, where the breeze blew straight toward them, as far as
the mysterious dividing line, and then disappeared. The spinnaker was
taken in, and the yacht, regardless of the helm, "walloped" about in all
directions, as the swells, swashing against the bow, or pounding under
the counter, turned her around. This was unpleasant, and might last all
night, if "the calm beat back the wind," as the sailors say, so Charley
sent out the crew in the two boats, which were lowered from the davits,
to tow the yacht into Cobourg, now about three miles away. The
main-sheet was hauled flat aft to keep the main-boom quiet, and soon she
had steerage way on.
To insure fine weather at home one must take out an umbrella and a
water-proof. On the water, for a dead calm, sending the boats out to tow
the yacht is as good as a patent medicine. Before very long the topsail
seemed to have an inclination to fill on one side more than on the
other, so one boat was ordered back and a club-gaff-topsail used in
races was sent aloft to catch the breath moving in the upper air. This
sail had huge spars on it that set a sail reaching a good twenty-five
feet above the topmast head, and about the same distance out from the
end of the gaff. It was no child's-play getting it up, and the sailors'
chorus as they took each haul at the halyards attracted some attention.
Perhaps no amateur can quite successfully give that break in the voice
peculiar to a professional sailor when hauling heavily on a rope. And
then the interjections:
"O-ho! H'ister up."
"Oh-ho! Up she goes."
"O-ho! R-Raise the dead."
"Now-then-all-together-and-carry-away-the-mast, O-ho!" etc.
Some especial touches were put on to-day for the benefit of the ladies,
and when the man aloft wished those on deck to "sheet home" the big
topsail, the rascal looked down at Margaret and called "sea foam!" In
the forecastle she was called "Sea Foam" during the whole trip, not
because she wore a dress of cricketing flannel, but on account of her
former mistake in the words. To Rankin and some others who saw the
little joke, the idea seemed poetical and appropriate.
Not more than a breath of wind moved aloft--none at all below--but it
proved sufficient to send the yacht along, and about half-past six in
the evening they slipped in to an anchor at Cobourg, fired a gun, and
had dinner.