“Let me try, sir.”
“Here, then.”
Tom tried and gave it up.
“To Piper’s Point!” he cried. “She’ll pass there much closer!” And again he led the way, with Daintree thundering close behind, and the terrier barking happily at their heels.
Along the shore they raced, the little bay on their right, then across the promontory diagonally, and out at its western point, panting, trembling, streaming with perspiration, but in time: her bowsprit was sticking out behind the island, and they were there to see her nose follow, with the foam curling under it like a white moustache.
Tom had the telescope, focussed still, and he handed it to Daintree without a word; but the one concerned was trembling so violently, the ship jumped right and left, and Tom had to try again. He was steady enough. What was it to him? She was only half a mile off now, and the first thing he saw was a frock fluttering on the poop.
“Now I have it!” he muttered. “The sun’s on the letters: one, two, three—yes, there are eight! R—o—”
He lowered the glass and held out his hand.
“I congratulate you from my heart: the Rosamund it is, and I think that with the glass you may find the young lady herself upon the poop.”
It was Tom who led the cheers a moment later.
“I sha’n’t be there to meet them,” moaned Daintree as they were running back. “Ninety-nine days—ninety-nine days!”
“They’re not doing four knots; they’re shortening
