“Rio lights are going out,” said Mate Susan.
They were. One by one the lights on the hill above Rio Bay disappeared.
“It must be awfully late,” said Susan.
The clouds swept over the stars again. There were no lights to be seen anywhere. The little Swallow rushed along in the darkness, Susan keeping her close to the wind, facing directly forward and putting the tiller up a little when she felt the hint of a cold breath on her left cheek.
“Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred. … Ready about,” said John. Susan put the Swallow about. For a moment the water was silent under her keel, and then, as she gathered speed, the pleasant, galloping noise of the waves began again.
“You take the tiller, John,” said the mate, “I want to get out some chocolate for that boy.”
John took the tiller, counting steadily and slowly. He had the compass with him, and sometimes lit the torch and fixed it between his knees, and held the compass in its light. But it was really not much good, though he would have liked to think it was. The best he could do was to keep the ship sailing and to see that she sailed about the same distance on each tack. And then—what if the wind had shifted a little?
The mate got out the cake and the chocolate. She and the captain found that they could do with some just as well as the boy. The boy, warm in his two sets of clothes and his blanket, was enjoying himself enormously.
“Wouldn’t Titty have liked it?” he said.
“Liked what?” said Susan.
“Sailing like this in the dark,” said the boy.