Tom ran ashore to cast off while Joe did some last fussing over the motor. Having cast the stern-line aboard and coiled it, Tom now came forward, throwing off the bowline, boarding with it.
“Start her up at very slow speed ahead, Joe,” called down the young captain, taking his place at the wheel and throwing it over a little.
With the first throbs of the propeller the “Meteor” began to glide away from the pier. Mr. Dunstan had taken his post at Halstead’s right. The water being deep enough, the young captain moved out confidently.
“Just a little more speed, Joe,” Tom called, when the pier end was some two hundred yards astern.
A little faster and still a little faster the propeller shaft turned, until it settled down to good work. The “Meteor” was moving at about twelve miles an hour.
“Fine!” cried Mr. Dunstan joyously. “We’re all right now.”
“We’re not yet quite out of the—well, I won’t say woods, but sea woods,” smiled Tom quietly.
“I’m forgetting my duty,” cried Mr. Dunstan in sudden self-reproach. “I must act a bit as pilot until you know these waters better.”
“Why, I studied the chart, sir, nearly all the way from Portland,” replied Tom. “I think I am picking up the marks of the course all right.”
“You can’t see Nantucket from here, but can you point straight to it?” inquired Mr. Dunstan.