“Salt,” said Mark. “Don’t you remember the moorhen. Things are not nice without salt.”
“Yes, salt and matches, and pots for cooking, and a lantern, and—”
“Ever so many cargoes,” said Mark. “As there’s such a lot, and as we can’t go home and fetch anything if it’s forgotten, hadn’t you better write a list?”
“So I will,” said Bevis. “The pots and kettles will be a bother, they will want to know what we are going to do.”
“Buy some new ones.”
“Right; and leave them at Macaroni’s.”
“Come on. Sail home and begin.”
They launched the Pinta, and the spanking south-easterly breeze carried them swiftly into harbour. At home there was a small parcel, very neatly done up, addressed to “Captain Bevis.”
“That’s Frances’s handwriting,” said Mark. Bevis cut the string and found a flag inside made from a broad red ribbon cut to a point.
“It’s a pennant,” said Bevis. “It will do capitally. How was it we never thought of a flag before?”