“That is more pleasant, Jack,” as the short, chopping motion was exchanged for a regular rise and fall; “this is what I enjoy—a steady wind and a regular sea. The Seabird goes over it like one of her namesakes; she is not taking a teacupful now over her bows.
“Watkins, you may as well take the helm for a spell, while we go down to lunch. I am not sorry to give it up for a bit, for it has been jerking like the kick of a horse.
“That's right, Jack, hang up your oilskin there. Johnson, give us a couple of towels; we have been pretty well smothered up there on deck. Now what have you got for us?”
“There is some soup ready, sir, and that cold pie you had for dinner yesterday.”
“That will do; open a couple of bottles of stout.”
Lunch over, they went on deck again.
“She likes a good blow as well as we do,” Virtue said enthusiastically, as the yawl rose lightly over each wave. “What do you think of it, Watkins? Is the wind going to lull a bit as the sun goes down?”
“I think not, sir. It seems to me it's blowing harder than it was.”
“Then we will prepare for the worst, Watkins; get the trysail up on deck. When you are ready we will bring her up into the wind and set it. That's the comfort of a yawl, Jack; one can always lie to without any bother, and one hasn't got such a tremendous boom to handle.”
The trysail was soon on deck, and then the Seabird was brought up into the wind, the weather foresheet hauled aft, the mizzen sheeted almost fore and aft, and the Seabird lay, head to wind, rising and falling with a gentle motion, in strong contrast to her impetuous rushes when under sail.