"Weel," said Macallister grimly, "if I meet yon dago another time, I'll maybe find out something before I throw him off the mole. A good engine's nearer life than anything man has made, and wrecking her is as bad as murder."
"I don't think our opponents would stick at that," Grahame replied as he turned away.
Toward evening the barometer fell, and it grew very hot. There was no wind, the sky was cloudless, and the sea rolled back to the horizon without a ripple. For all that, there was a curious tension in the atmosphere, and Evelyn noticed that soon after Macallister came up for a few minutes and looked carefully about, thick smoke rose from the funnel. The girl's head felt heavy, and her skin prickly; and she saw that Grahame's hawk look was more noticeable than usual. He was, however, not fidgety, and after dinner he sat talking to her and Cliffe under the awning. The air was oppressively still, and a half-moon hung like a great lamp low above the sea.
About nine o'clock Cliffe went to his cabin to look for a cigar, and Evelyn and Grahame sat silent for a while, wrapped in the mystery of the night.
Evelyn was the first to speak.
"I suppose you don't expect this calm to last?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"I'd like it to last while you're with us. But I can't promise that," Grahame answered. "If we do get a breeze it will probably soon blow itself out."
Evelyn glanced at the sea.
"It doesn't look as if it could ever be ruffled," she said. "One likes smooth water—but it's apt to get monotonous."
"That's a matter of temperament, or perhaps experience. When you've had to battle with headwinds, you appreciate a calm."