“Meedle Duck Island, ya-as.”
A few minutes more and they saw a line of coast dead ahead.
“Manitoulin Island?” whispered Pink.
“Aye tank.”
On they went until the shore lay plainly before them in the moonlight,—on until the breeze began to fail them, so close were they in the shelter of the land. Finally they heard McGlory say in a guarded voice, “Ready about, up there!” and they sprang to their places.
It proved a short tack. Hardly a quarter of an hour later, when the land had faded but a little way into the indistinct night, they came about again. This time they ran in so directly for the land that Pink grew nervous. He stood up, pipe in hand, looking back at the mate, then forward at the shore. The breeze fell away, but they drifted on through a mirror of shapes and shadows. The trees of the bank loomed before them, then, it seemed, around them.
Still the Merry Anne drifted on, her wheelsman turning every stray breath to advantage. She was in a cove now, though how wide it was or how far it extended the sailors could not tell, so strangely were the bluffs and the trees reflected in the water. Drifting, however, is lazy work, and Harper sat down to it and relighted his pipe, At length the schooner came lazily up into the wind and McGlory ordered the anchor overboard. Here was a chance to try to wake the Captain, and the chance was seized; but even the dank and rattle of the chain failed to interrupt the snoring in the cabin.
“Linding,” said McGlory, “come back here.”
Larsen and Harper looked at each other,—they had not told Linding,—then between them they woke him and sent him aft.
Without a word the mate motioned the sailor to help him lower the boat over the stern.