“Besides, the Martha has a gasoline engine—­twenty-five horse-power,” Tudor added.

“Just the sort of a craft for us,” Joan said wistfully to Sheldon.  “I really must see if I can’t get a schooner with an engine.  I might get a second-hand engine put in.”

“That would mean the additional expense of an engineer’s wages,” he objected.

“But it would pay for itself by quicker passages,” she argued; “and it would be as good as insurance.  I know.  I’ve knocked about amongst reefs myself.  Besides, if you weren’t so mediaeval, I could be skipper and save more than the engineer’s wages.”

He did not reply to her thrust, and she glanced at him.  He was looking out over the water, and in the lantern light she noted the lines of his face—­strong, stern, dogged, the mouth almost chaste but firmer and thinner-lipped than Tudor’s.  For the first time she realized the quality of his strength, the calm and quiet of it, its simple integrity and reposeful determination.  She glanced quickly at Tudor on the other side of her.  It was a handsomer face, one that was more immediately pleasing.  But she did not like the mouth.  It was made for kissing, and she abhorred kisses.  This was not a deliberately achieved concept; it came to her in the form of a faint and vaguely intangible repulsion.  For the moment she knew a fleeting doubt of the man.  Perhaps Sheldon was right in his judgment of the other.  She did not know, and it concerned her little; for boats, and the sea, and the things and happenings of the sea were of far more vital interest to her than men, and the next moment she was staring through the warm tropic darkness at the loom of the sails and the steady green of the moving sidelight, and listening eagerly to the click of the sweeps in the rowlocks.  In her mind’s eye she could see the straining naked forms of black men bending rhythmically to the work, and somewhere on that strange deck she knew was the inevitable master-man, conning the vessel in to its anchorage, peering at the dim tree-line of the shore, judging the deceitful night-distances, feeling on his cheek the first fans of the land breeze that was even then beginning to blow, weighing, thinking, measuring, gauging the score or more of ever-shifting forces, through which, by which, and in spite of which he directed the steady equilibrium of his course.  She knew it because she loved it, and she was alive to it as only a sailor could be.

Twice she heard the splash of the lead, and listened intently for the cry that followed.  Once a man’s voice spoke, low, imperative, issuing an order, and she thrilled with the delight of it.  It was only a direction to the man at the wheel to port his helm.  She watched the slight altering of the course, and knew that it was for the purpose of enabling the flat-hauled sails to catch those first fans of the land breeze, and she waited for the same low voice to utter the one word “Steady!” And again she thrilled