“About a hundred tons?” I inquired.
“Yes. A hundred feet long, beam twenty feet, and she draws twelve feet,” said Charley; and I thought I detected the mate listening to him.
He now called my attention to the flags, and I am certain that I saw the sailing-master hide his mouth with his hand. Some of the deck-hands seemed to gather delicately nearer to us.
“Sunday, of course,” I said; and I pointed to the Jack flying from a staff at the bow.
But Charley did not wish me to tell him about the flags, he wished to tell me about the flags. “I am very strict about all this,” he said, his gravity and nauticality increasing with every word. “At the fore truck flies our club burgee.”
I went through my part, giving a solemn, silent, intelligent assent.
“That is my private signal at the main truck. It was designed by Miss Rieppe.”
As I again intelligently nodded, I saw the boatswain move an elbow into the ribs of one of the quartermasters.
“On the staff at the taffrail I have the United States yacht ensign,” Charley continued. “That’s all,” he said, looking about for more flags, and (to his disappointment, I think) finding no more. For he added: “But at twelve o’c—at eight bells, the crew’s meal-flag will be in the port fore rigging. While we are at lunch, my meal-flag will be in the starboard main rigging.”
“It should be there all day,” I was tempted to remark to him, as my wandering eye fell on the cabin boy carrying something more on a plate to Kitty. But instead of this I said: “Well, she’s a beautiful boat!”