better, if he perseveres, as I have done. Now, my notion of treating such a theme,” said Daintree, “you have heard before, but you shall hear it again.”
And with that he drew “Hours of Exile” from his pocket, and read with ineffable unction one of the longest sets of “Stanzas to Clarinda”; while the terrier gazed up at him with eyes of devoted sympathy and admiration; and Tom fed his upon feathery emerald branches and a turquoise sky, as he reluctantly decided that the kindest of men was in some respects the most egregious also. Suddenly—to his horror—the reading stopped. He had been caught not attending! He lowered his eyes, and they fell upon the snowy wings of a full-rigged ship just clearing the woody eastern point of the bay, and sailing slowly and majestically on.
Both men sprang to the water’s edge. Daintree’s book lay in the sand. The ship was now clear of the point—standing to the north of Shark Island, with the light sea-breeze upon her counter—a noble vessel of six hundred tons, flying the red ensign at her peak.
Not a word passed at the water’s edge; but it was Tom who led the rush to the bungalow, who fetched Daintree’s immense spy-glass, with the flags of all nations let into the leather, and who bared the lenses before putting it in his master’s shaking hands.
“How many days are they out?” asked Daintree, aiming wildly with the glass.
“Ninety-nine.”
“She could never do it!”
“It’s been done before.”
“Oh, no, no; this must be some other ship. Steady the glass for me. I can’t get focus. There—now! Yes! I can see her people, but I can’t read her name!”
