“There’s four or five.”
The white sea-swallows passed them, going down the water, coming from the south. They flew a few yards above the surface, in an irregular line—an easy flight, so easy they scarcely seemed to know where each flap of the wing would carry them.
“There will be a storm.”
“A tornado.”
“Not yet—the sky’s clear.”
“But we must keep a watch, and be careful how we sail on the raft.”
The appearance of the sea-swallow or tern in inland waters is believed, like that of the gull, to indicate tempest, though the sea-swallows usually come in the finest of weather.
“There’s Charlie. There are two—three,” said Mark, snatching up the telescope. “It’s Val and Cecil. Charlie’s waving his handkerchief.”
“There, it’s all right,” said Bevis.
“They are pointing this way,” said Mark. “They’re talking about us. Can they see us?”