"Break out that gaff tops'l, fellows—and you, Tim, go aloft and point the way—and hurry, afore the snow comes."
"Point the way to what, Sammie?"
"For a little white sloop with a girl in it."
"Ho-oh—that's it, is it?"
IV
Bess had curled herself up and was falling asleep; and her last sleep it would have been but for the boom of a small gun and the hail of a familiar voice. She stood up. Again a hail. And through the curtain of white it came almost atop of her, the grandest schooner ever was! The long lines of her seemed familiar. Then a clearer glimpse. Ay, she'd know her anywhere—by the rust on her jumbo she would—the Ligonier. And then it swept on by—ay, sailing as a wild gull.
Out of sight it went in the snow-squall, but leaving a voice in its trail.
"Bessie! Bessie!" it called.
And now no schooner at all. Gone it was. And she remembered that that was the way of it—the beautiful picture afore they went at last. But soon again the sweep of the great white sails and the black body beneath. And the beautiful handling of her! "Seamen, them!" said Bess admiringly, and then alongside it came—beautiful, beautiful.
Then two arms scooped down and swept her over the rail of the lovely big American schooner. A strong arm and a voice. "Oh, Bessie! Bessie! and the big, warm, foolish heart of you!" said the voice, and the arms carried her below and wrapped her in blankets and poured hot coffee, mugs of it, down her throat, and laid her in a bunk, while he sat on the locker and looked—just looked at her.