“When will you reach Sanstable?” shouted Nelson.
One of the men took his pipe from his mouth, spat over the rail, and cocked an eye at the sun.
“’Bout three o’clock,” he answered finally.
“Thunder!” muttered Nelson. Then, “How far is it?” he asked.
The pipe came forth again and the informant let his gaze travel around the horizon as though he were looking for a milestone.
“’Bout thirty or forty miles,” he said.
“Thanks!” shouted Nelson. There was no reply to this. Doubtless the sailor thought it a waste of time to remove his pipe for a mere polite formality. Presently he and his companions, all save the man at the wheel, disappeared.
The sun grew warmer and the sea calmer. The wind had stolen around into the south and blew mildly across the sparkling waves. There was nothing to do save take life easily, and so Bob and Dan stretched themselves out on the cabin roof, Tom went to sleep in the bow, and Nelson stayed in the cockpit where he could get to the wheel if the necessity arose. At twelve Tom was awakened out of a sound but not silent slumber, and sent below to cook luncheon, and at a little before two bells they ate. By this time they were near enough the shore so that they could distinguish objects. Plymouth was passed at two, and at three the tug was heading into the shallow harbor of Sanstable.
“How much are you going to offer him?” asked Bob.
“The tugboat fellow? I don’t know. What do you think?” said Nelson.