After lingering an hour or two, "breaking the Sabbath," the schooner proceeded,—the wind freshening during the afternoon, and the Gulf growing choppy, as if it could not quite suffer us to pass without exhibiting somewhat of that peevish quality for which it has an evil renown. It was but a passing wrinkle of ill-humor, however,—a feeble hint of what it could do, if it chose.
And when we recrossed it, two and a half months later, it chose!
June 14. "Land ho! Labrador!"
"Where? Where is it?" cry a chorus of voices.
"There, a little on the larboard bow."
A long, silent, rather disconcerted gaze.
"I don't see it," says one.
"Nor I."
"There,—there,"—pointing,—"close down to the sea."