"They are splendid little boats, are they not?" he said.
"Yes, indeed. The rig reminds me of some of the sharpies they use on the Connecticut coast. But these are regular sea-going craft, and must beat up to windward nicely."
"You are quite a sailor," was his obviously indicated remark.
"I've done a good deal of small-boat sailing on the Sound," I informed him, "out of Larchmont and those places, and in Great South Bay. I suppose I've been a good deal of a tomboy."
"You've been a fine, strong, healthy girl, and you still are," he replied, quietly.
It was only such approval as Harry Lawrence, for instance, might have bestowed on a blue-ribbon pointer. The man considers me as a rather nice specimen and, with all due modesty, I am inclined to agree with him.
By this time we were rapidly nearing the island. As far as I could see it was nothing but a rough mass of rocks better suited to the tenancy of sea-gulls than human beings. Everywhere the waves were breaking at the foot of the cliffs and monstrous boulders. A great host of sea-birds was rising from it and returning; in the waters near us the dear little petrels dotted the surface with black points, while slow-flying gannets traveled sedately and active terns rioted in the air. Coots and other sea-ducks rose before our boat and, from time to time, the little round heads of harbor seals, with very human-looking eyes, bobbed on the seas.
"Isn't it perfectly delightful," I cried. "I could never weary of watching all these things, and what is that big duck, or is it a goose, traveling all alone and flying straight as an arrow?"
"It is just a big loon. The Great Northern Diver, you know."
"I don't think I ever saw them flying. I shall always recognize one again. They are regular double-enders, pointed at both ends. Is it the same sort of loon that we see on the Maine and Adirondack lakes?"