‘You may take it, Wilfrid,’ said I, ‘that your men are able to see pretty much alike.’
‘Is there no way of testing the fellows’ sight?’ cried Wilfrid excitedly, with an unnecessary headlong manner about him as though he would heave his body along with every question he put or exclamation he uttered: ‘then we could uproot the moles among them. Dash me, Finn, if I’m going to let the “Shark” slip astern of us for want of eyesight.’
The skipper sent a slow uncertain look around the horizon, evidently puzzled; then his face cleared a bit. He went to the weather rail and stared ahead, crossed to leeward and fastened his eyes on the sea on the lee bow; then, coming up to windward again, he hailed a man who was at work upon the topsail yard doing something to one of the stirrups of the foot-rope.
‘Aloft there!’
‘Hillo!’
‘Jump on to the topgallant yard and let me know if there’s anything in sight ahead or on either bow?’
‘Ay, ay, sir.’
The fellow got upon the yard, and leaned from it with one hand grasping the tie, whilst with the other he shaded his eyes and took a long whaling look. His figure was soft and firm as a pencil drawing against the hard and windy greyness of the heavens, and the rippling of his trousers to the wind, the yellow streak of his lifted arm naked to the elbow, the inimitable, easy, careless pose of him as he swayed to the swift vibrations of the spar on which he stood, with the ivory white curves of the jib and stay foresail going down past him till they were lost forward of the topsail that yawned in a shadowed hollow which looked the duskier for the gleam of the pinion of staysail this side of it, made a little sea picture of quiet but singular beauty.
‘Nothing in sight, sir,’ he bawled down. Finn raised his hand in token that he heard him and turned to Wilfrid.