"Lay for'ard, Hugh, and slack off that bow-line," ordered Betty energetically. "How is the engine, Watkins? Very well, turn it over."
There was a splutter, and then the steady "put-put-put."
"Cast off that bow-line, Hugh! Lay aft, Watkins. Is the stern-line slack? Pay out! Let go! Get out from under my feet, Jack. No, Daddy, you can't have a cigar—nothing but running-lights. I'd douse those if I weren't afraid of the Navy people. Mr. Zaranko, d'you mind dropping into the cabin and taking a look at the tools we laid in?"
We chugged slowly through the glut of shipping in the Golden Horn, edging away from the Galata shore toward the picturesque bulk of Stamboul. Seraglio Point loomed ahead of us, high, rugged, tree-covered, dotted with infrequent lights. We rounded it, the lighthouse twinkling on our starboard beam, and turned southwest into the Bosphorus, with the wide sweep of the Marmora just ahead. To port the outline of Scutari and the suburbs on the Asiatic shore showed dimly. To starboard Stamboul towered, white and ghostly and serenely beautiful, more than ever the magic city of the Arabian Nights. The steamer from Rodosto and other Marmoran ports steamed past us with a swash and gurgle. A belated fishing-boat flapped by. Then we had the waters to ourselves.
"Have you the night-glasses, Hugh?" questioned Betty. "See if you can make out the St. Sophia minarets." And to us: "That's our first landfall in making Tokalji's house. Watkins, I think it ought to be safe now to douse the running-lights."
Hugh leaned forward across the cabin-roof, resting on his elbows, eyes glued to the glasses.
"Right O," he called back. "I'm on them—and I can see that big old tower of the sea-walls that lies this side of the jetty."
Betty cut off the engine.
"Fetch the sweeps, Watkins," she whispered. "We'll pull in. Quiet, everybody."