"Be it so; but not yet. Now set the course north-west. A single light here at the binnacle, and no other to show from anywhere on board. As soon as we are in the creek, see that the sails are smartly trimmed to my order. There'll be little time to spare."
The captain passed the word, and began to moodily pace the deck. He had never thought to question the genuineness of the two papers. There stood the pilot, his life forfeited by any failure tending to bring disaster upon the lugger; and it was a good guarantee.
Anon the captain glanced at the pale, set face of the pilot, on which the diffused light from the binnacle lantern feebly shone. For the second time that evening the captain shivered, and without being able to define the cause. He felt strangely ill at ease. Accustomed to daring ventures, the present seemed sheer recklessness. Who was this determined boy? Why did his presence bring back a fateful memory of the past?
The darkness deepened, and was further intensified by the cold, grey fog. The wind was light, but a steady up-Channel draught. The lugger was creeping in under mainsail and jib, her other sails being furled.
The pilot took over the helm, and ordered the man he relieved to go forward. At the same time the captain came and stood by the binnacle.
"What is our position?" shortly asked he.
"We are within the creek," replied the pilot. "Hark! Don't you hear the grinding of the shingle away over the port bow? As soon as the sound comes from windward we'll have her on the port tack, and thus we'll clear Boulder Ledge."
"It sounds fair sailing; but I liken it to going blindly into a trap," retorted the captain.
"Haul on the main-sheet! Steady, forward, with the jib!" And the pilot starboarded his helm.