“More choppy—I dunno—different. Jude would tell you the same. Pap had the sense of it too. Western ocean folks can smell ice miles off when the bergs are cruisin’ about. I reckon it’s the same thing— There’s the sun.”
Right ahead, as if touched by a wizard, the stars had faded above the sea-line, the sky over there looked sick, a stain on the velvety splendor of the night.
A great gull passed the Sarah, flying topmast high, and now far off and as though coming through a pinhole could be heard a creaky lamentable sound,—the crying of gulls.
“I’ve got the smell of her now,” said Satan. “Them gulls you’re hearin’ aren’t all of them from Lone. There’s a big spit to east’ard, and they’ll be comin’ up against the wind. Say, will you take a bet?”
“What sort?”
“I’ll bet you even dollars Cleary hasn’t held on same as we’ve done the last six hours. He was droppin’ astern a long way last time I sighted him. He’ll have seen the reef on the chart right ahead of him, and his navigation is no account: hasn’t no sea sense. He’ll be hove to singin’ ‘Lead, kindly light’ and listenin’ for the breakers—What you say?”
“I’d rather bet on the Sarah.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Satan.
The head sails showed hard now against the east, and almost before one could turn and look again the blaze had come above a band of opal-tinted mist which passed and vanished, leaving on the horizon a train of fire pale as guinea gold.
In that moment, far ahead and as if suddenly sketched by a pencil against the eastern light, they saw the naked spars of a vessel anchored in the dawn.