“A month—more or less. Who's your pal?”
“That girl that waved her hand to me.”
The ship's officer focused his binoculars on the Sea Sprite.
“There's no girl on her deck. Girls very seldom travel on wind-jammers nowadays. Look for yourself.”
Peter took the glasses, and again saw the Sea Maid quite distinctly—but he did not care to argue about it.
While waiting at Rio de Janeiro Peter took care to make friends with the port authorities, and arranged with them to let him have the first news that they had of the Sea Sprite.
At last one morning found him in the customs launch, steaming out to the roadstead where the Sea Sprite, her anchor down, was stowing her canvas. As soon as the quarantine doctor gave permission Peter scrambled up the ship's side and looked eagerly round her deck. The Sea Maid was not there. He could hardly contain himself until he could find an opportunity to ask for her.
“I passed you in the Channel, Captain,” he said, “and I saw a lady on your deck who is an old friend of mine. May I speak to her?” The captain shook his head.
“Must have been some other ship,” he said. “We've got no ladies aboard.”
Peter's heart sank.