"Break the anchor out, boys," says the skipper, "and stand by to hoist the headsails."
In a few minutes the anchor is on deck and the foresail and jib are hoisted to the fast-increasing breeze. Away we go on the starboard tack, heeling over till the water boils up in the lee scuppers and an occasional spray comes inboard on the weather bow.
As we pass through the fleet at anchor many admiring eyes examine us critically from quarter-deck and bridge; and many binoculars are leveled in our direction as we swiftly glide toward the open bay, where we shall feel the true force of the breeze and see whether the club-topsail will be too much for her with sheets flattened in.
Captain Marlin is at the helm, with the owner beside him. Both view the sails with expert glances, quick to discover imperfections in fit or trim. The mainsail retains its shape admirably, because it has been beautifully stretched by a sailor and not "monkeyed with" by a countryman from an inland village. The jib is pulling magnificently, and the foresail is attending strictly to business.
As soon as we reach the bay, away from the shelter of the protecting headland, we get the full strength of the wind, which, indeed, pipes high. A squall strikes us, and we careen under its influence till the lee rail—a mere batten—is almost awash. The skipper
