‘They look long; they must be ships. They cannot be common fishing-boats; too big.’
‘Are they triremes?’
‘Perhaps they are.’
The old sailor was standing near the pilot, shading his eyes with his hand.
“Are they triremes?’
‘Yes, they are.’
‘Which way are they looking?’
‘Seaward, I think.’
‘Row on now as you have never rowed before. Each one of you shall have his name up at the Agora at Athens—a drachma a day for life.’
‘Are they moving?’