"A big topsail schooner, painted white."
"The Lone Star for certain, then," said Alie, taking my hand again.
As she spoke, the breakfast bell sounded and we went below to our meal. When we returned to the deck the distance between the two boats had diminished considerably, and we could make out the schooner quite distinctly. She was little more than five miles away now, and there could be no possible doubt about her identity. Then, as we watched, she went slowly about and next moment we saw a string of signals break out at her masthead.
Walworth took up a glass from the deck chair and reported that she was anxious to know our name and where we hailed from.
"Shall I answer?" he inquired.
"By all means," Alie replied; "did you bring the signals with you?"
"I have them in my berth," he answered, and dived below, to reappear a moment later with a bundle of bunting under his arms.
Having asked the skipper's permission, he bent them on to the halliards and ran them up to the gaff end. They streamed out upon the breeze, and as he watched them Walworth cried to Alie, with the first and only sign of excitement I have ever known him show:
"That will let them know that you are safe aboard!"
"Do you wish me to bring the yacht as close alongside as I can?" asked our skipper, who had been made aware of our intention to say good-bye to him immediately we sighted the Lone Star.