Regretfully relinquishing his old topmast, and leaving Dexter and his dories in his wake, Peter gradually gathered steerage-way, and headed up the dock, from where, in time, he managed to work into the street, and then, with Duncan’s office to port and a good beam wind, he bore away for Crow’s Nest. He had it in mind to go by way of the Anchorage, and laying his course therefor—no’west by nothe—he hauled up for the Anchorage corner.
Luffing the least bit to clear the brass railings outside the Anchorage windows, and having in mind all the while how fine it would be once he was around with a fair wind at his back, and bending his head at the same time to the breeze, Peter ran plump into somebody coming the other way.
“I say, matey, but could you swing her off a half-point or so?” sung out the other cheerfully.
“Swing off? Why, of course, but gen’rally a vessel close-hauled is s’posed to have right of way where I come from.”
“Close-hauled are you? Well, so’m I—or I thought I was.”
“And so maybe y’are, if you’re so round-bowed and flat-bottomed a craft you can’t sail closer than seven or eight points. Anyway, I’m starb’d tack.”
“Well, who in—” The other peered up. “Why, hello-o, Peter!”
“What! Well, well, Tommie Clancy! the Colleen Bawn in already?”
“To anchor in the stream not two minutes ago. I hurried ashore on an errand for her.”