And that immaculateness was everywhere apparent. I could see well enough why it was that I had awakened alone in the forecastle with only old Steve to watch over me.
Brass shone to brisk burnishing; mahogany glowed to the chamois; every man jack of ’em was furbishing, except the helmsman.
And the craft was well worth such grooming. Even in the anxiety that, of necessity, was mine at the moment, I glowed over such fitness; everything O. K. to the dot. Bowsprit to taffrail I scanned her, and didn’t find an “out.” Her forestay she carried pretty well inboard, for the ’sprit was short, according to the modern custom.
The masts, clear Oregon pine, raked a trifle, giving a dash that was a bit reminiscent of the old America. It may not make for speed, but I never saw a real sailor that didn’t favor it.
Guessing the direction by the sun, I reckoned our course to be somewhat east of south, and the freshening west wind bellied the creamy canvas into unwrinkled corpulence. Besides her lower standing, she was carrying ballooner and club topsail.
But no foretopsail met my upward search, and it didn’t take long to see why. Between her masts stretched wireless rigging.
Now, all this time of my survey of the schooner, not one of the full score of sailors that were working all about me, as I paced the forward deck, gave me a word. But I judged, from an occasional furtive glance or two I caught, that I was nothing if not interesting.
I suppose, though, as old Steve had intimated, “orders were orders.” But that kind of thing gets on a man’s nerves as only such inactive suspense can, and I was upon the very point of striding aft to stir up something when I spied some gilt emerging from the companionway.
The little captain gave a word to the man at the wheel, then whirled and faced forward.
“Stevens once more!” said I to myself, though I was not oversurprised at the recognition.