He heaved a deep sigh and began tracing patterns on the sand with his finger. The rat trap inventor was at fault, his ingenuity could not assist him, the civilized man who believed in the sanctity of womanhood and the primitive man who wanted to make a meal of T. C. were at war, but the primitive man was the stronger and was preparing to speak and make a fool of himself when a yell came from George.
“Ship!”
They sprang to their feet and came running to the water’s edge. They could see nothing; then, following his pointing, away on the sea line, they saw what looked like the wing of a fly.
“It’s the Wear Jack,” said Hank, “no, it ain’t—her canvas wouldn’t show as dark as that.”
“How’s she bearing?” asked George.
“Coming right in, I believe. She’s got the wind with her; that’s her fore canvas. There’d be more spread if she was sideways to us or tacking against the wind. Yes, she’s coming right for us.”
“Good,” said George.
There was silence for a moment, a silence more indicative than any words could be of the relief that had come to their minds. It was suddenly shattered by Hank.
“She’s the Heart of Ireland.”
“What you say?” cried George.