‘It’s coming,’ said Jessop. ‘Make everything snug, my lass; there’ll be a perfect hurricane before morning.’
As Wal Jessop sat at the well-laden tea-table, he suddenly put down his knife and fork, and drew a paper from his coat-pocket.
‘I’d quite forgotten,’ he said. ‘I hope they’re not making for Sydney in such a gale as this will be.’
‘What ship do you mean?’ asked his wife.
‘The Distant Shore is due here early next week. It’s Saturday, and the agents expect her on Monday at the latest. I hope Captain Manton has not made an extra quick passage. She’s a clipping sailer, is the Distant Shore, and he’s a bit venturesome—likes to make a rapid run. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s not far away to-night.’
‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Jessop.
Captain Manton often paid a visit to the Jessops when in Sydney, and the pilot and his wife were very fond of his company.
As the evening wore on the storm raged in all its fury. Every hour seemed to add to the velocity of the gale. A great roar like distant thunder could be heard in the cottage as the waves dashed against the mighty rocks of South Head, and then rushed back, baffled and angry.
‘It’s beginning to rain,’ said Wal Jessop; ‘I’ll just see if the pony’s all right before it comes on faster.’
‘Be quick in again,’ said his wife, ‘or you’ll be drenched.’