All this took long to tell.
Within the lantern, Mr. Charles A. Pyne, appointed supernumerary assistant-keeper, was burnishing brasswork as per instructions received. He little knew the use which was being made of his name by the tiny bits of linen tossing about on the exterior gallery. In such wise, helped by a compositor and dignified by headlines, does a man become a hero in these days of knighthood conferred by the Press.
Constance was scrutinizing the Falcon from the trimming-stage. Hearing Enid's cheery "Good-morning" to Pyne when that young lady raced upwards from the kitchen to catch a glimpse of the reported vessel, she dropped her glasses for a moment.
"Jack is on board," she announced. "Of course he would be there. And there is such a lot of other men—half Penzance, I think."
Enid joined her; Pyne, too, thought he could polish a burner up there as well as on the floor of the service-room.
Stanhope's stalwart figure, clad in oilskins, was clearly defined as he stood alone on the port side of the Falcon's small bridge, reading off the signals and sending back spasmodic twitterings of the flags which he, also, had procured, to indicate that each word was understood.
"Who is the skipper of the tug?" inquired Pyne quietly.
Both girls laughed.
"You mean Jack," cried Enid. "He is not the captain. He is an officer of the Royal Navy, our greatest friend."
"Jack is his front name, I suppose," went on Pyne, breathing on the copper disc in his hands to test its clearness.