“Me welly nicely, t’ank you,” was the glib response.
By this time Mr. Chillingworth had set the helm and put the little sloop about. She fairly flew through the water, throwing back clouds of spray over the top of her tiny cabin. It was exhilarating, though, and the boys enjoyed every minute of it.
But as they sped along, it soon became apparent that the wind was freshening. The sea, too, was getting up. Great green waves towered about the boat as if they would overwhelm her. The combers raced along astern, and every minute it seemed as if one of them must come climbing over, but none did.
“Got to take another reef,” said Mr. Chillingworth presently. “Can either of you boys handle a boat?”
“Well, what a question,” exclaimed Mr. Dacre. “If you had seen them managing the Omoo in that gale off Hatteras, you’d have thought they could handle a boat, and well, too.”
“That being the case, Tom here can take the tiller, while I help Fu take in sail.”
Mr. Chillingworth resigned the tiller to Tom, who promptly brought the sloop up into the wind, allowing her sails to shiver. This permitted Mr. Chillingworth and the Chinaman to get at the reef points and tie them down. This done, the owner of the boat came back to the cockpit and she was put on her course once more.
“You handled her like a veteran,” said Mr. Chillingworth to Tom, who looked pleased at such praise coming from a man whom he had already made up his mind was a very capable citizen.
The rancher went on to explain something of his circumstances. He and his wife had come out there some years before. They were doing their best to wrest a living from the rough country. But it was a struggle. Mr. Chillingworth admitted that, although he had big hopes of the country ultimately becoming a new Eldorado.
“Just at present, though, it’s a little rough,” he admitted.