“Oh, we’re in no hurry, Dave,” answered Hugh with a laugh. “This is just sailing for sport. You’ll like it after a while when you get more used to it. Go and sit up fore, to windward.”
Dave meekly obeyed.
“A whiff of this salt air will do him good,” said Norton to the captain, who, ignoring Dave entirely, vouchsafed no reply.
He appeared to be pondering some contingency of which his crew were unaware. He spat profusely, cast his eyes aloft at the topsails that had not been lowered despite the squall, then looked measuringly at his sloop.
“Wind’s slackening,” he observed.
Hitherto heading southward, the Arrow now began to edge toward the long line of keys. By this time the wind had gradually dwindled almost to a breath, and the sun hung far down the Western sky, glowing like a disc of molten copper.
“Bad weather comin’,” croaked Dave, noting these signs. “One day, two day off, p’raps.”
This gloomy prophecy was received in silence. No one thought it safe or worth while to deny the assertion.
Presently they came abreast of a fringe of larger keys fronting an important harbor. Beyond the broad inlet that led in toward the bay and mainland, a stretch of smooth, clean, white sand, bordered by clumps of waving cabbage palms, indicated to Captain Vinton that he was near one of his old camping places.
“I’m goin’ to stop over thar for supper,” he called to the boys. “We might better spend the night on shore, for there’ll be wind ag’in and rough water later on.”