Five minutes later the galley was spinning across the sparkling waters of the harbour.
Once the Captain spoke, and the bowman moved his weight six inches forward. Then she sailed to his light touch on the helm as a violin gives out sound under the bow of a master.
Casey, sitting motionless on the bottom boards with the mainsheet in his hands, gazed rapturously at the new mainsail, and thence into the stolid countenance of the second stroke.
"Ain't she a witch?" he whispered.
For half an hour the galley skimmed to and fro among the anchored fleet, now running free like a white-winged gull, anon close-hauled, the razor bows cleaving a path through the dancing water in a little sickle of creaming foam.
The Captain brought her alongside the gangway with faultless judgment and stood up. Like Saul, he had taken the cares of high command to a witch, and lo! his brow was clear and his eyes twinkled.
"Yes," he said in even tones as he stepped out of the boat, "that mainsail sets all right," and ran briskly up the ladder two steps at a time.
Casey thumbed the lacing on the yard. "Perfection is finality, and finality is death."
"I don't know but what I wouldn't shift the strop 'arf an inch aft—mebbe a quarter . . ."
Inboard the ship's bell struck eight times, and the boatswain's mate began shrilly piping the hands to dinner.