“That skipper knows himself and his ship, too!”
Such were the admiring expressions that went up from the crowd of young sailors as the yacht was splendidly rescued from her danger and sent along, as before, in the same rushing style by her bold helmsman.
“Ah! he is heading for an anchorage off here!” said Cadet Captain Byrd Bascomb, as the schooner’s sheets were eased off and her prow headed away before the wind.
On she flew, at the same mad speed, reeling, staggering, rolling, until her boom ends dipped, but held on unswervingly straight toward the vessel-of-war anchored off the grounds in the Levern River.
“By Neptune’s beard, men, but that is a youngster at the helm of that craft,” cried Byrd Bascomb, as he put his glass to his eye.
It was not long before all could discover the truth of this, and that three men were all else to be seen upon the deck of the schooner, one of these forward, another at the foresheet halyards, the third at the main sheet.
Like a rocket she sped under the stern of the vessel-of-war, and then there came an order from the helmsman, the sheets were hauled in and made fast, and luffing up sharp, the anchor was let fall, the sails came down on a run, and ten minutes after a boat left her side and pulled for the shore.
The cadets lounged up to meet the single occupant of the little boat, which was a surf-skiff, and though tossed about upon the waves, was handled with a skill which caused the middies to set the rower down as a master of the oars.
The oarsman sprang ashore, touched his hat politely, and asked nobody in particular:
“May I ask where I will find the commandant of the Naval School?”