“That’s good enough for me,” he replied. He helped her into the boat and lifted anchor, running up the sails and casting off. The breeze freshened and caught the sail and filled it and the great boat crept from the harbor and rounded the point.... Out in the open, it was blowing stiff and the boat ran fast before it, little dashes of spray striking the bow and flying high. The girl’s laugh sounded in the splashing water, and the salt spray was on her arms and cheeks and hair.
The young man looked at her and smiled and turned the bow—ever so little—to take the wave and send it splashing about her, and her laugh came to him through the swash of the spray. It was a game—old as the world... pursuit and laughter and flight and soft, shining color and the big sun overhead, pulling the whole game steadily through space—holding the eggshell boats on the waves and these two, riding out to sea.
He turned the bow again and the splashing of the water ceased. She was looking at him with beseeching, shining eyes, and he bent a little forward, a tremulous smile of power on his lip. He was drinking life—and sky and sea were blotted out. The boat ran heedless on her way... and he talked foolish nothings that sounded important and strange in his unstopped ears.... The girl nodded shyly and spoke now and then—but only to the sky and sea....
The sky had darkened and the distant fleet bore toward home—casting curious glances toward the dark boat that moved with random hand.... George Manning could be trusted in any blow, but he was up to something queer off there—with a sky like that. They drew in sail and ran close, making for harbor....
The young man looked up and blinked a little and sprang to his feet. He had pushed the tiller as he sprang, and one leg held it firm while he reached to the guy rope and loosed it. “Get down,” he said harshly.
Her quick eyes questioned him and the little head lifted itself...With a half-muttered word he had seized her, crowding her to the bottom of the boat and ducking his head as the great boom swung past.
She gazed at him in swift anger, pulling herself free. But her wrath spoke only to the winds—He had run forward, dragging down the foresail, and was back to the tiller—his dark face set sternly, his eyes on the horizon.
When she tried to get up, he did not look at her—“Stay where you are,” he said roughly.
She hesitated a minute and sank back, biting her lip close. The line of gunwale that rose with heavy sweep to the sky and fell through space, cut her off. There was only the creaking of the boat, straining against the sea, and the figure of the man, above her, who had thrust her down—the great figure of the man and the blackened sky. By and by the rain fell and drenched her and the wind blew fiercely past the boat, driving them on. She could see the great hand on the tiller tighten itself to the wind, and force its will upon it, and the figure of the man grow tense. One leg thrust itself quickly and struck against her and pushed her hard—but she would not cry out—She hated him and his boat and the great sea pounding about them.... She wanted to get her pan of fish and go home to Uncle William and cook the dinner. The tears were on her face, mingling with the rain and the salt water that drenched it.
By and by the pounding waves grew less and the boat ceased to strain and creak and the great hand on the tiller relaxed its hold a little.