They tripped the anchor just off bottom, got out the sweeps, and worked the Viking back a dozen rods or so from the shallow water about the reef. Then they dropped anchor again, with plenty of slack to the rope, to let the yacht ride easy with less strain on the anchorage. There were a half-dozen boats within hailing distance, similarly anchored, including Skipper Martel and his pinkey.
“We’re in good company,” said Henry Burns, laughing. “But I’m glad Jack isn’t near enough to stir him up.”
Evening came on, and the little fleet resembled a village afloat, with the tiny wreaths of smoke curling up from the cabin-funnels. The night was clear overhead and the hills of Loon Island shone purple in the waning sunlight, streaked here and there with broad patches of black shadow. The ground-swell broke upon the reef heavily, sending up a shower of spray high in air, weird and grimly beautiful in the twilight.
“That’s good music to sleep by,” said Bob, as the booming from the reef came to their ears while they sat at supper.
“Yes, it’s all right on a night like this,” assented Harvey. “You’ll sleep as sound as in the tent.”
It grew dark, and the little fleet set its lanterns, though it was mere conformance to custom in this case, since no craft ever made a thoroughfare where they lay.
“What do you think?” asked Henry Burns two hours later, as he and Harvey stood outside, taking a survey of the sea and sky, and making sure once more that their anchor-rope was clear and well hitched—“What do you think, Jack, do we need to keep watch?”
He had quite a bump of caution for a youth who did not hesitate at times to do things that others considered reckless.
“Oh, it’s still as a mill-pond,” replied Harvey. “We’ve had the clearing-off blow, and there are the clouds banking up off to southward, where the breeze will come from in the morning. See, there isn’t a man out on any of the other boats. No, we’ll just turn in and sleep like kittens in a basket.”
So they went below.