"It's fair now," said Niven with a curious eagerness.
"Is anybody telling you different?" Stickine said dryly. "It's time we were getting our supper, boys."
They went on again, and though they had rowed since morning the stroke was faster than it had been before, while all seemed expectant when they lay waiting for the other boats to give them room close by the rolling schooner. At last they hove her in, and there was a curious silence when Jordan moved a pace or two forward and glanced at the trysail with a little smile in his face. The schooner was just creeping through the water under it and her jibs.
"We'll have it down and the mainsail up. It would be a kind of pity to waste a slant like this," he said, and stopped a moment while the men watched him expectantly with the twinkle showing plainer in his eyes. "I don't know any reason you shouldn't give her the topsails too. She'd be that much nearer Vancouver to-morrow, boys."
In a moment the deck seemed covered with scrambling men. Blocks rattled, brawny backs were bent, great folds of rustling canvas swayed aloft, and as it swelled and banged Stickine's voice rose up, "Blow, boys, blow!"
The peak of the big mainsail tilted faster, with a fresh rattle the foresail stretched out too, and the lads' cheeks were flushed and a light was in their eyes when with voices hoarse from excitement they swelled the roaring chorus—
"Blow, boys, blow for Californio,
For there's shining gold in heaps, I'm told,
On the sunny Sacramento."
It grew louder and faster, and they pulled with feverish eagerness as they sang, while when at last one or two gasped and stopped, their voices were replaced by the wheezing of Brulée's accordion as playing with all his might he capered on the hatch.
"Way oh, Sacramento!" the voices rose again, and stopped when Montreal turned on Niven, who was dragging a sail after him.
"We've no use for that thing. Get the biggest yard header. We're starting home," he said.