Tom handed the glass to Bailey, who took it, and looked at the schooner long and carefully.
At length he returned it to Tom. “It’s a fisher,” said he; “a Yankee fisher. I knows the cut of her jib; there’s no mistakin her. You don’t find any of yer Province fishermen git up such a turnout as that there. Why, she’s a cross between the best class of Liverpool pilot-boat and a nobleman’s yacht; and I don’t believe there’s a pilot-boat or a yacht afloat that can lick that there fisherman in a fair race.”
Arthur now took the glass, and looked at her long and earnestly.
“I say, Tom,” said he.
“What?”
“Do you know what I’m thinking?”
“I dare say it’s the very thought that I had.”
“What? The Fawn?”
“The very thing.”
“Of course it’s all nonsense. I suppose all the Yankee fishermen, or, at any rate, a great many, are just like the Fawn; but, at any rate, wouldn’t it be fun if it should turn out to be her?”