Priscilla, who had no oilskin, got wet quicker but was no wetter in the end. Her cotton frock clung to her. Water oozed out of the tops of her shoes as she pressed her feet against the lee side of the boat to maintain her position on the slippery floor boards. She had crammed her hat under the stern thwart. Her hair, glistening with salt water, blew in tangles round her head. Her face glowed with excitement. She was enjoying herself to the utmost.
Tack after tack brought them further up the bay. The wind was still freshening, but the sea, as they got nearer the eastern shore, became calmer. The Tortoise raced through it. Sharp squalls struck her occasionally. She dipped her lee gunwale and took a lump of solid water on board. Priscilla luffed her and let the main sheet run through her fingers. The Tortoise bounced up on even keel and shook her sails in an ill-tempered way. Priscilla, with a pull at the tiller, set her on her course again. A few minutes later the sea whitened and frothed to windward and the same process was gone through again. The stone perch was passed. The tacks became shorter, and the squalls, as the wind descended from the hills, were more frequent.
But the sail ended triumphantly. Never before had Priscilla rounded up the Tortoise to her mooring buoy with such absolute precision. Never before had she so large an audience to witness her skill. Peter Walsh was waiting for her at the buoy in Brannigan’s punt. Patsy the smith, quite sober but still yellow in the face, was standing on the slip. On the edge of the quay, having torn themselves from their favourite seat, were all the loafers who usually occupied Brannigan’s window sills. Timothy Sweeny had come down from his shop and stood in the background, a paunchy, flabby figure of a man, with keen beady eyes.
“The weather’s broke, Miss,” said Peter Walsh, as he rowed them ashore. “The wind will work round to the southeast and your sailing’s done for this turn.”
“It may not,” said Priscilla, stepping from the punt to the slip, “you can’t be sure about the wind.”
“But it will, Miss,” said one of the loafers, leaning over to speak to her.
Another and then another of them took up the words. With absolute unanimity they assured her that sailing next day would be totally impossible.
“Unless you’re wanting to drown yourselves,” said Patsy the smith sullenly.
“The glass has gone down,” said Timothy Sweeny, coming forward.
“Help the gentleman ashore,” said Priscilla, “and don’t croak about the weather.”