Two men came sauntering aft, at the call; the line and glass were prepared; and Johnson himself made ready to test the speed of the brig.
“Turn!” he cried to the man who held the glass, as the last of the “stray” passed out over the taffrail.
The glass was smartly turned; the reel spun rapidly round; the marks flew through Johnson’s fingers, and his countenance brightened with exultation.
“Stop!”
The sand had all run out; and Johnson grasped the line just before the eighth knot reached his hand.
“Tarnation! you’re right, stranger,” he angrily exclaimed. “Waal, I swan I made sure she was going ten at the very least.”
“You skippers very often make that kind of mistake,” remarked Lance. “Or rather, it is not so much a mistake as a self-deception; you would like your ship to have a speed of ten knots in such weather as this, and ‘the wish is father to the thought.’ Besides which, having formed an attachment for your ship, you are naturally anxious to give strangers also a favourable impression of her.”
“That’s so, stranger, sure as you’re standin’ there; you’ve exactly hit it I knew the craft wan’t doin’ over eight at the outside; but the way you talked about that yacht of yours sorter put my back up, and I ’lowed I wan’t goin’ to let you have all the big talk to yourself. About this yacht of yours, colonel; where is she now?”
“Where I left her, no doubt,” answered Lance with a smile; “safe and sound on the mud of Haslar creek, inside Portsmouth harbour.”
“I suppose, as she’s such a flyer, that one of the crack English builders put her together?” inquired Johnson.