A SHOT FROM THE DARK
During the first few hours of the afternoon we had looked on deck several times, but felt better satisfied to remain below, out of the drizzle. Now the captain's big voice rumbled some kind of good news, and each of us made a dash for the stairs.
Even as we piled out into the cockpit the mate gave a yell and sailors sprang to haul down the topmast-and main-topmast-staysails. Off in the southwest, which had been leaden from horizon to meridian showing no distinction of water and sky, appeared a spot of light, a glow, growing rapidly brighter. Before it the misty rain was being wiped as if by magic from the air.
Looking toward the northward I beheld the other yacht standing out in bold relief upon a blacker, more dismal background. She was beautiful at that moment—her sides and sails unnaturally whitened against the gloom, suggesting a cameo set on a piece of slate. Our blocks began to creak, sails bulged into huge scoops, masts tilted majestically, and the Whim, freed from her enforced idleness, bounded in response.
"Wind!" Tommy shouted, his arms held skyward. "Aphrodite, sweet and mighty, send a gale before the nighty!"
"But," Monsieur looked at him reprovingly, "Aphrodite is not goddess of the wind!"
"Who said she was?" he innocently asked.
"You conjure her for the gale—bah!"
"That's because she rhymes with nighty, gezabo! When my Muse sings, to hell with mythology! Come join the clouds—you're sordid!"