"How old is Tim?" I asked, with my despised eyes watching ahead.
"Why, about your age, I should say. Fifteen, ain't it?" he shouted to his son.
"Fifteen what?" called back the lad, from forward behind the jib.
"Years, ye donkey-foal!" replied his father. "Your age, I says."
"You oughter know, dad! But I believe I'm thereabouts. What then—what of it?"
"Nothin'—don't you think it," was the reply. "Mind you keep your eyes to windward, seems a change like."
"I've been thinking o' that cloud yonder, dad; seems like to spread. What d'ye think o' standin' in a bit?"
"Nonsense!" I exclaimed sharply. "We can't weather the point if we keep in. As it is the tide seems sucking us into the cliffs."
"There's no call for hurry," said Murry. "But when ye can lay a point inside—well, half a point—do it. The sky's getting kind o' hazy."
We had run well down the coast, slipping over the small waves, and darting merrily along. The boat was sailing well up in the wind, close hauled; and every now and then, with all my care, I could not prevent the sail shaking a bit. This back lift required me to keep away farther out, and then we found the wind coming more abeam, and fresher at times. Again it died away, and luffed up once more.