An officer pointed his finger at Marston's house flag, snapping from the yacht's main truck. The blue fish-tail with its letter “M” had revealed the yacht's identity to searching glasses.
“Better make it black! Skull and cross-bones!” volunteered the megaphone operator.
On she went down the sea and the Olenia tossed in the turbulent wake of the kicking screws.
Then, for the first time, Captain Mayo heard the sound of Julius Marston's voice. The magnate stood up, shook his fist at his staring captain, and yelled, “What in damnation do you think you are doing?”
It was amazing, insulting, and, under the circumstances as Mayo knew them, an unjust query. The master of the Olenia did not reply. He was not prepared to deliver any long-distance explanation. Furthermore, the yacht demanded all his attention just then. He gave his orders and she forged ahead to round the whistler.
“Nor'west by west, half west, Billy. And cut it fine!”
The fog had fairly leaped upon them from the sea. The land-breeze had been holding back the wall of vapor, damming it in a dun bank to southward. The breeze had let go. The fog had seized its opportunity.
“Saturday Cove for us to-night, Mr. McGaw,” said the master. “Keep your eye over Billy's shoulder.”
Then the secretary appeared again on the ladder. This time he did not bring any “compliments.”
“Mr. Marston wants you to report aft at once,” he announced, brusquely.