“I don’t know, but I should think they might kick up quite a fuss.”
“Oh, well, we’ve got land all around us,” said Dan.
“Yes, that’s the trouble. There isn’t room enough to turn around in without hitting something. And as for that idiot there at the tiller, I wouldn’t trust him to drive a canal boat.”
“Oh, let her blow,” said Dan. “Maybe it’ll blow us down to Jamestown.”
“If those clouds over there in the northeast mean anything,” answered Nelson, “we’re more likely to get blown back toward Beach Neck.”
“Well,” laughed the other, “we don’t have to pay unless he gets us to Peconic. Think of the saving!”
There was a long spit of sand stretching out from the mainland, and as the boom swung over and they headed into the dying breeze the boat’s nose pointed straight for the end of it. Nelson glanced back. Over near the Shelter Island shore the sea was ruffled with cat’s-paws. Here, however, the last breath of air seemed to have died out.
“Say, you’d better bring her around to starboard,” he shouted. “That looks mighty like a squall back there.”
Will looked over his shoulder uneasily and shoved the helm over. At that moment the first breath of wind from the new quarter struck them, and the sloop heeled over until Dan had to grab at the mast to keep from rolling off. The next instant the sheet paid out, and the sloop righted. Then came a burst of wind that sent Dan and Nelson down to the cockpit, and took the sloop through the water at a lively clip. They were free of the sand spit now, and again the helm went over, and the boat pointed for the channel between the spit and the north shore.