Soon outer jib, jumbo and mainsail were set and trimmed close, and Spurling again took the helm. The Barracouta ran southeast through Merchant's Row, a procession of rugged islets slipping by on either side; then south past Fog and York islands, with the long, high ridge of Isle au Haut walling the western horizon; down between Great Spoon and Little Spoon, past White Horse and Black Horse, toward the heaving blue of the open ocean.
A grum, melancholy note came floating over the long sea swells—Oo-oo-oo-ooh! And again, Oo-oo-oo-ooh!
"What's that!" exclaimed Percy.
"Whistling buoy south of Roaring Bull Ledge. One of our nearest neighbors. We'll hear that voice pretty often, when the wind's from the north."
They passed two miles east of the whistler, and gradually its warning blast grew fainter and fainter. On the horizon straight ahead a little black mound was slowly rising above the breaking waves. Jim swung his hand toward it.
"There's Tarpaulin! Our home for the next three months! Looks kind of small and lonesome when you're running offshore for it; but it's pretty good to make after an all-day fishing-trip. What's the matter, Whittington?"
Percy's face was somewhat white; for the last half-hour he had been strangely subdued.
"I don't feel very good," said he.
Spurling eyed him critically, then scanned the faces of the others. The Barracouta was rising and falling on the long swells in a manner decidedly disconcerting to weak stomachs. Stevens and the young Italian did not look much happier than Percy. Jim could not help smiling a little.
"Good seasick weather!" he observed, judicially. "Excuse me for laughing, boys! It's a mean thing to do, but I can't help it. I've been there myself—years ago. You'll be worse before you're better."