With all sails set, the "Osprey" lurched; then her bow plunged deep into a green flood of heaving water—they were actually off.
Seven boys, squeezing along the narrow space between lumber and gunwales, tumbled hilariously toward the stern. But even pleasurable anticipations could not altogether still a pang of regret at leaving Uncle Stanley's lumber camp. They waved their hands, shouting again and again.
How fine the sawmills looked, sending up columns of smoke and steam! And there, over the bluff's rugged heights, were the cabins. The crowd became silent—but only for a moment.
"Had some great times," sighed Tim. "Never thought we'd meet with a fate like this, eh?"
"What do you mean—what fate?" grunted Jack.
"Why, that we'd get blown away."
"Well, as long as we aren't blown into little bits, you needn't kick," grinned Jack.
A fresh breeze droned intermittently through the rigging, and choppy waves beating against the hull now and again sent up showers of sparkling drops.
The familiar, forest-crowned cliffs began to drop lower against the sky.
"Want to see the cabin, boys?"