We'll go up and see what
the weather's like."
Carroll shivered when they stood in the well. It was falling dusk, and
the sky was a curious cold, shadowy blue. A nipping wind came down across
the darkening firs ashore, but there was no doubt that it had fallen
somewhat, and Carroll resigned himself when Vane began to pull the tiers
off the mainsail.
In a few minutes they were under way, the sloop heading out toward open
water with two reefs down in her mainsail, a gray and ghostly shape of
slanted canvas that swept across the dim, furrowed plain of sea. By
midnight the breeze was as strong as ever, but they had clear moonlight
and they held on; the craft plunging with flooded decks through the
white combers, while Carroll sat at the helm, battered by spray and
stung with cold.
When Vane came up, an hour or two later, the sea was breaking viciously.
Carroll would have put up his helm and run for shelter, had the decision
been left to him; but he saw his comrade's face in the moonlight and
refrained from any suggestion of that nature. There was a spice of
dogged obstinacy in Vane, which, although on the whole it made for
success, occasionally drove him into needless difficulties. They held
on; and soon after day broke, with its first red flush ominously high in
the eastern sky, they stretched in toward the land, with a somewhat
sheltered bay opening up beyond a foam-fringed point ahead of them.
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