“Mine’s in the cabin,” said Candon, “get the windlass going and I’ll start the engine. Give me a call when the mud hook’s up and look slippy.” He dived below and as he dived a loose bunt of sail puffed out and a breeze from the nor’west laid its fingers on the cheek of Hank.
“Wind’s coming,” cried Hank. “Leave the windlass, get to the halyards. Hi! Charley there, look alive, man. Your throat and peak halyards—Bud, lay forward and get the gaskets off the jib.” He rushed to the hatch of the engine room. “Candon, below there! Wind’s coming, I’m getting sail on her, that damned junk will lay for us sure and I’m not trusting the engine any.” He rushed back to the wheel and stood whilst the mainsail, fore and jib were got on her. Then came the sound of the winch and the anchor came home whilst the slatting canvas filled and Hank turned the spokes of the wheel setting her on a course south by east.
Candon’s head bobbed up from below.
“I can’t get the durned thing to go,” said he.
“Never mind,” said Hank, “the wind’s freshening.”
As he spoke it breezed up strong, the mainsheet tautened and the boom lifted as the sails bellied hard against the stars and the Wear Jack leaned over to it, boosting the ebony water to snow.
Candon took the wheel from Hank.
“It’s bad luck we have to run right past them,” said he as the next bay opened, showing the junk lit up as if for a festival and the fires on the beach.
“They’ll have had time to collect their wits and man the junk and they’ll know it’s not the police.”