I saved her. I took her off the reef. I saved her
from the grave of the sea when fifty-five pounds was considered a big
risk. She is mine, peculiarly mine. Without me she wouldn't exist. That
big nor'wester would have finished her the first three hours it blew. And
then I've sailed her, too; and she is a witch, a perfect witch. Why, do
you know, she'll steer by the wind with half a spoke, give and take. And
going about! Well, you don't have to baby her, starting head-sheets,
flattening mainsail, and gentling her with the wheel. Put your wheel
down, and around she comes, like a colt with the bit in its teeth. And
you can back her like a steamer. I did it at Langa-Langa, between that
shoal patch and the shore-reef. It was wonderful.
"But you don't love boats like I do, and I know you think I'm making a
fool of myself. But some day I'm going to sail the _Martha_ again. I
know it. I know it."
In reply, and quite without premeditation, his hand went out to hers,
covering it as it lay on the railing. But he knew, beyond the shadow of
a doubt, that it was the boy that returned the pressure he gave, the boy
sorrowing over the lost toy. The thought chilled him. Never had he been
actually nearer to her, and never had she been more convincingly remote.
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