with an acquaintance; but for the most part she gazed toward the harbor mouth and said no word to any one.
"She always like dat," a neighbor informed a little group. "A conjer 'oman once tell she Jake goin' git drownded; an' she ain't hab no happiness since, 'cept when he feet is hittin' de dirt."
Presently a murmur arose among the watchers. Out at the harbor mouth, against the thin greenish-blue of the horizon, appeared the "Mosquito; Fleet." Driven by a steady breeze, the boats swept toward the city with astonishing rapidity.
Warm sunlight flooded out of the west, touched the old city with transient glory, then cascaded over the tossing surface of the bay to paint the taut, cupped sails salmon pink, as the fleet drove forward directly into the eye of the sun.
Almost before the crowd realized it, the boats were jibing and coming about at their feet, each jockeying for a favorable berth.
Under the skillful and daring hand of Jake, the "Seagull" took a chance, missed a stern by a hairbreadth, jibed suddenly with a snap and boom, and ran in, directly under the old rock steps of the wharf.
A cheer went up from the crowd. Never had there been such a catch. The boat
