While this work went on, and while the yards were being braced
around, the Elsinore, her bow pointing to the west, began moving
through the water before the first fair wind in a month and a half.
Slowly that light air fanned to a gentle breeze while all the time
the snow fell steadily. The barometer, down to 28.80, continued to
fall, and the breeze continued to grow upon itself. Tom Spink,
passing by me on the poop to lend a hand at the final finicky
trimming of the mizzen-yards, gave me a triumphant look.
Superstition was vindicated. Events had proved him right. Fair wind
had come with the going of the carpenter, which said warlock had
incontestably taken with him overside his bag of wind-tricks.
Mr. Pike strode up and down the poop, rubbing his hands, which he was
too disdainfully happy to mitten, chuckling and grinning to himself,
glancing at the draw of every sail, stealing adoring looks astern
into the gray of snow out of which blew the favouring wind. He even
paused beside me to gossip for a moment about the French restaurants
of San Francisco and how, therein, the delectable California fashion
of cooking wild duck obtained.
Pages:
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442