He crawled out on the veranda. The rain had ceased, but the wind, which
had dwindled to a half-gale, was increasing. A big sea had sprung up,
and the mile-long breakers, curling up to the over-fall two hundred yards
from shore, were crashing on the beach. The _Jessie_ was plunging madly
to two anchors, and every second or third sea broke clear over her bow.
Two flags were stiffly undulating from the halyards like squares of
flexible sheet-iron. One was blue, the other red. He knew their meaning
in the Berande private code--"What are your instructions? Shall I
attempt to land boat?" Tacked on the wall, between the signal locker and
the billiard rules, was the code itself, by which he verified the signal
before making answer. On the flagstaff gaff a boy hoisted a white flag
over a red, which stood for--"Run to Neal Island for shelter."
That Captain Oleson had been expecting this signal was apparent by the
celerity with which the shackles were knocked out of both anchor-chains.
He slipped his anchors, leaving them buoyed to be picked up in better
weather. The _Jessie_ swung off under her full staysail, then the
foresail, double-reefed, was run up. She was away like a racehorse,
clearing Balesuna Shoal with half a cable-length to spare.
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