“I’m sorry, skipper,” Archie went on, with a dignity of which his manner of life had long ago made him unconsciously master, “for having taken too much for granted. I want passage with you to Ruddy Cove, skipper, for which I’ll pay.” 298
“You’re welcome, sir,” said the skipper.
The Wind and Tide lay at Hook-and-Line that night in fear of the sea that was running. She rode so deep in the water, and her planks and rigging and sticks were at best so untrustworthy, that her skipper would not take her to sea. Next morning, however––and Archie subsequently recalled it––next morning the wind blew fair for the southern ports. Out put the old craft into a rising breeze and was presently wallowing her way towards Green Bay and Ruddy Cove. But there was no reckless sailing. Nothing that Archie could say with any appearance of propriety moved the skipper to urge her on. She was deep, she was old; she must be humoured along. Again, when night fell, she was taken into harbour for shelter. The wind still blew fair in the morning; she made a better day of it, but was once more safely berthed for the night. Day after day she crept down the coast, lurching along in the light, with unearthly shrieks of pain and complaint, and lying silent in harbour in the dark.
“‘Wisht she’d ’urry up,’” thought Archie, with a dubious laugh, remembering Bagg.
It was the twenty-ninth of August and coming 299 on dark when the boy first caught sight of the cottages of Ruddy Cove.
“Mail-boat day,” he thought, jubilantly. “The Wind and Tide will make it. I’ll be in St. John’s the day after to-morrow.”
“Journey’s end,” said the skipper, coming up at that moment.
“I’m wanting to make the mail-boat,” said Archie. “She’s due at Ruddy Cove soon after dark.”
“She’ll be on time,” said the skipper. “Hark!”
Archie heard the faint blast of a steamer’s whistle.