"Hand those topsails down, and get up the biggest yard-headers," he said.
There was no scurrying, but the men were very swift, and in a few minutes the little three-cornered topsails they had carried at night were down, and two big ones set. The Champlain quickened her pace a trifle, but it was evident the other schooners were coming up with her. Jordan laid down his glasses.
"The Belle and the Argo. They're bringing the breeze along with them," he said.
The sea was still only faintly rippled about them, and the smoke from the galley eddied in the hollow of the foresail, but the other vessels had grown plainer and were slanting over, while Niven, who resumed his deck scrubbing, fancied that Jordan strode up and down impatiently. Then Brulée, the French-Canadian cook, put his head out of the galley. "The breakfast is quite ready, camarades," he said.
The lads took their places with the rest, and when they sat down Niven glanced at the big lean-faced Stickine.
"What are we running away from those fellows for?" he said.
"Hear him!" said Donegal. "'Tis marvellous, his observation."
"Give the lad a show now and then," said the Canadian. "Well, now, when you see Ned Jordan run away you can figure there's dollars somewhere at the bottom of it, because if he didn't want to it would take quite a fleet of gunboats to put a move on him."
Brulée laughed. "You others are all lak that," he said. "V'la la belle chose—courant en courant—la chasse de dollar. It is so with you also in my country, the Quebec."
"Well, now," said a little man who hailed from Montreal, "there was a time when some of you made tolerably good running down there under Montcalm too. I've seen the place where that chase came off, and it's right behind the ramparts at Quebec."