“Yes, sir; the yacht is yours for the time it is hired.”
“Then we will sail at nine. I will be here punctually at that hour.”
“All right, sir.”
Dick Hammond returned to the hotel, where he arrived about one o’clock. He spent the day and dined with his uncle and his friend.
At half-past eight o’clock he paid his last visit to the bedside of his cousin, in whom, as yet, there appeared but little change.
And then he took leave of all and went down to the yacht; and at a few minutes after nine the “Flying Foam” made sail for England.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A SHOCK.
What is life? ’Tis like the ocean,
In its placid hours of rest,—
Sleeping calmly, no emotion