106 The Life Worth Living 



"Twenty-eight minutes," I answered. 



"Seven miles in twenty-eight minutes; 

 she's a peach! That's mor'n fourteen miles 

 an hour. There ain't a boat afloat can beat 

 her in a gale." 



In four hours and a half we made the forty 

 mile run, crossing the long mud-flats with 

 only the jib set. She swung to her anchor 

 at sundown on the ducking grounds, and 

 when her jib ran down with a crash, a great 

 flock of brant rose with a chorus of protest 

 that rang over the waters like the baying of 

 a thousand hounds. The flock was two 

 miles long and three hundred feet deep and 

 their flight darkened the sky like a storm 

 cloud. 



"Never mind, old boys, we'll give you 

 something to talk about to-morrow if this 

 wind holds to the nor'west," was George's 

 answer to their cry. 



