"For God's sake! clap on all the sail you can! Get these reefs out!" With trembling fingers Ezra let out the sail, and the boat lay over further under the increased pressure. "Is there no other sail that we could put up?"
"If we were running, we could rig up a spinnaker," the fisherman answered; "but the wind has come round three points. We can do no more."
"I think we are catching her," John Girdlestone cried, keeping his eyes fixed upon the barque, which was about a mile and a half ahead.
"Yes, we are now, but she hain't got her way on yet. She'll draw ahead presently; won't she, Jarge?"
The fisherman's son nodded, and burst into hoarse merriment. "It's better'n a race," he cried.
"With our necks for a prize," Ezra muttered to himself. "It's a little too exciting to be pleasant. We are still gaining."
They had a clear view of the dark hull and towering canvas of the barque as she swept along in front of them, intending evidently to take advantage of the wind in order to get outside the Goodwins before beating up Channel.
"She's going about," Sampson remarked. As he spoke the snow-white pile lay over in the opposite direction, and the whole broadside of the vessel became visible to them, every sail standing out as though carved from ivory against the cold blue sky. "If we don't catch her on this tack we won't get her at all," the fisherman observed. "When they put about next they'll reach right out into the Channel."
"Where's something white?" said Ezra excitedly. He dived into the cabin and reappeared with a dirty table-cloth. "Stand up here, father! Now keep on waving it! They may see you."
"I think as we are overhaulin' of them," remarked the boy.