“Had you not better see Martin?” suggested Maurice, shaking himself like a huge water-dog, as a shower of spray flew over him.
Crispin nodded an assent, and began to struggle towards the wheel, where Martin was standing. It was rather difficult, owing to the slipperiness of the wet deck and the tossing of the yacht, which one moment would be poised on the crest of a wave, and the next ingulfed in a foam-streaked valley of green water, which threatened to swamp her. However, by holding on to anything he could seize, Crispin managed to get close to the captain, who, in his efforts to keep the ship’s head right, was straining every muscle to hold the wheel, which was almost torn out of his grasp in a retrograde direction, every time a wave smashed against her helm.
“Kamila!” screamed Crispin in Martin’s ear, as he pointed to the dim mass.
Martin shook his head doubtfully.
“Too far south’ard. We’re nigher Anapli, I reckon.”
“And Melnos?”
“Straight ahead. Who says ’tis Kamila?”
“Count Caliphronas!”
“Hum! he knows these parts too. I’ll go and have another look at the chart.”
“If it’s Kamila, Melnos is just round the shoulder.”