Then they sent the topsail up, and the schooner was sliding south with a merry splashing at the bows when the last refrain floated out to leeward, and was lost in the silence that crept up across the sea, from the frozen North they had turned their backs upon.
"Shining gold in heaps, I'm told,
Down there in Sacramento."
"Now I guess we'll fix these pelts up," said Jordan quietly.
Without a thought of weariness they worked most of the night, and the lads did not even notice the horrible smell, while when at last the deck was swilled down Niven went forward and leaned a moment over the rail in the bows. The jibs swung blackly through the night ia front of him, the sea frothed white below, and the breeze was fresh and cold now, but the lad's face was flushed, for with every lurch that flung off the creaming foam the Champlain was bearing him so much nearer home. Then he turned and, because a half-moon hung low in the sky, noticed that there was another dark figure close beside him. It was Tom Allardyce, and when the man moved his head his face still showed worn and drawn, but his eyes seemed to shine, and it was with a curious little sigh that bespoke a great content he stretched out his hand and pointed to the south.
"She's footing it bravely—and taking us home," he said. "Many a time I've wondered what it would feel like—up there—when there wasn't much use worrying over things of that kind."
"It must have been beastly," said Niven, feeling that this very inadequately expressed his sympathy, and the man's voice was a trifle strained as he answered him.
"It's behind me now, and the folks I left down there in Vancouver are alive and waiting for me. It's—kind of wonderful, but Ned Jordan fixed it all. Well, I'm not the only one who'll bless the Champlain and him."
Niven felt curiously moved as he went down into the hold, and long afterwards the memory of the lonely man staring south across the dusky sea from the bows of the Champlain returned to him. Just then, however, his blood was tingling with exultation. He, too, was going home, and there were folks in England waiting to welcome him.
Next day it was blowing tolerably fresh, but though the spray whirled about them and the seas frothed white behind, not an inch of canvas was taken in, and it was with a little smile in his haggard face that Tom Allardyce held the wheel. As it happened the favouring wind swept south with them, and one morning a cry brought every man on deck.
"There, that's British Columbia," said Stickine when the lads stared over the rail. "She'd most have licked the C.P.R. steamer."