The wind was coming out of the north in a business-like way, and the sea it banked up was not of the sort to tempt the fair-weather sailor.
“All ready, boys?” sang out Captain Ransom from his place at the tiller.
“All ready!” was the answer.
“Arthur, stand by to tend the jib sheet; Frank, stand at the halliards; Clyde, go forward, yank up the mud-hook and cat it. I’ll tend the mizzen.”
The boys jumped to do his bidding. The windlass creaked and the yawl began to eat up the anchor cable.
“She’s broke!” came the cry from forward as the anchor gave up its last hold on Michigan soil for many a long day.
“Haul up your jib, Clyde. Now, Arthur, in with your sheet.” Ransom at the same time hauled in the mizzen a little, and shifted the helm.
The boat gathered headway slowly, then gained in speed till she was bounding over the rollers bravely.
“We are under way at last,” Ransom half sighed; but the sigh changed to a thrill of pure delight as he felt his boat slipping along under him; felt her answer to his touch on the tiller, as an intelligent horse responds to the hand on his bridle-rein.
The graceful craft heeled over to the freshening breeze till she showed a little of the dark green of her underbody. The way she moved along surprised and delighted the people on shore almost as much as it did her captain and crew.