“They may make a quicker voyage.”
“They may, but I never have. The one before was a hundred and forty days. They were both above the average, but not so very much.”
“Then all the more time to prepare in,” said Tom, entering thoroughly into the situation. “We must get the place to rights, you know, sir!”
“That’s true. It will help to pass the time.”
“Then we might pin up this chart.”
“What, and follow the course?”
“Suppose they came no quicker than you did, and put a drawing-pin in the place every day!”
Daintree was delighted; he shook Tom’s hand, and up went the chart, and in went the drawing-pin.
“You see,” he said, “they’ve not got to the Cape yet; they’re only just beginning to turn the corner and run their easting down.”
“That’s assuming they came no quicker than you,” said his consoler.
“Well, we will assume it. Still, when they’re a hundred days out we’ll have a flag ready, and you shall begin going every morning to the point to see whether there’s a ball at the south yard-arm. And after that will be the longest time of all!”
Meanwhile there was much to do, and Tom did most of it with enormous zest; he had never thought to be so happy again. His enthusiasm was the one return that he could make to Daintree, and he permitted it no bounds. It was Tom who stuck the drawing-pin through a cork ship of cunning build, full-rigged with needles for masts and paper sails. When Daintree saw it they christened her the Rosamund, after her real namesake, with a fitting libation; and from that day forth the cork vessel
