During the last few minutes the wind had veered through sixteen points of the compass. It had been from the sou'-sou'-east; now it was nor'-nor'-west.
Tending sheets occupied the crew's attention, and the conversation ceased. Desmond, perched upon the weather-rail, wanted to bear a hand. Inactivity bored him. In spite of his injured foot, he knew he could be of use if required, but his natural hesitation to thrust himself forward in the presence of strangers held him to silence.
"There's Lundy," announced Truscott, as a faint blurr appeared through a partial dispersal of the haze.
"Wind's piping up, too," added his chum. "How about handing that topsail? It isn't doing much good close-hauled."
Truscott glanced aloft. The topsail was acting up to its reputation of being the first sail to shake.
"Right-o!" he agreed. "Down with it."
Wilde went for'ard, cast off topsail sheets and halliards, and commenced to haul down.
"Dash it all!" he exclaimed. "The halliard's jammed. I always said that sheave was too small."
"Can you steer?" demanded Truscott abruptly, turning to the Patrol Leader. "Yes? Right-o, here you are."
Desmond found himself in possession of the tiller, while Truscott went for'ard to bear a hand with the stubborn topsail.