"I can't say. Jacob!"
"What is it, Master Robert?"
"How far is it to the lighthouse?"
The old Yankee sailor at the wheel of the Dashaway rubbed his grizzled chin and cast his eyes about before replying.
"I reckon as how it is about two miles or so," he said, with deliberation. "We have been running putty lively, you know."
"Do you imagine we can make it before that blow comes up?" asked Dick Wilbur, anxiously. "We don't want to lose a stick out here."
"We can do our best, sir. But we've got to work for it, for the wind is going down fast."
"I see that, Jacob. Hadn't you better throw her over a point or two?"
"I'll throw her over all she'll stand," answered Jacob Ropes, as he moved the handles of the brass-bound and highly polished steering wheel of the yacht. "Don't you think we had better lower the mainsail?"
"I think a couple of reefs will be enough—for the present," replied Dick Wilbur. "We can get the canvas in on the run when it freshens up."