After it went the steamboats, ploughing and snorting through the water, and after them a whole storm of sailing craft, all on the wing, each dashing up foam like fury.
Now the wind rose higher, and seemed to cool the air, while it spread out all the sails as they flew before it. This seemed to bring in a whole army of little waves from the great ocean, and, as true as you live, every wave had a white hat on.
I jumped up and fairly clapped my hands when I saw these waves trooping in, battalion after battalion, all tossing up their white hats and dancing forward, as if the winds were singing Yankee Doodle behind them.
Then the party in our yacht gave a shout.
"They are rounding the spit," says Cousin D. "Do look, Phœmie."
I did look, but saw nothing particular—who could? What would one spit be in a whole ocean of water.
Then came another shout.
"They have marked the boy."
"Goodness, gracious," says I, "is there a boy overboard? Do fling out a boat-hook or something!"
"Do not disturb yourself, Phœmie," said Cousin D.; "that particular boy has been swimming in one spot these ten years."