“What’s to be done?” said Mark. “Now try.”
Bevis put the tiller down, and Mark pulled her head round as quick as he could. By the time the sails had begun to draw they had lost more than half they had gained, and in crossing as the breeze slackened a little lost the rest, and found themselves as before, just off the mouth of the Nile.
“I don’t think you keep her up tight enough,” said Mark, as they began to cross again. “Try her closer. Close-hauled, you know.”
“So I will,” said Bevis; and the breeze rising again he pulled the mainsheet tighter (while Mark tightened the foresheet), and pushed the tiller over somewhat.
The boat came closer to the wind, and seemed now to be sailing straight for the quarry.
“There,” said Mark, “we shall get out of the gulf in two tacks.”
“But we’re going very slow,” said Bevis.
“It doesn’t matter if we get to the quarry.”
The boat continued to point at the quarry, and Bevis watched the mainsail intently, with his hand on the tiller, keeping her so that the sail should not shiver, and yet should be as near to it as possible.
“Splendid,” said Mark, on his knees on the ballast, looking over the stem. “Splendid. It’s almost time to tack.”