We were out of Newport Harbor before daybreak of next morning, and cruised inside Block Island all that day. We all thought the skipper would be in to Newport that night––it was no more than a two hours’ run the way the wind was––and we waited.

The test came after supper. We had supper as usual, at three o’clock. Breakfast at four, dinner at ten, supper at three––mug-ups before and after and in between. Along about four o’clock the skipper, standing on the break, stood looking back toward where Newport lay. Had we turned then we’d have been in nicely by dark. It was a fine afternoon––the finest kind of an afternoon––a clear blue sky, and a smooth blue sea with the surface just rippling beautifully. All fire was the sun and the sails of every vessel in sight looked white as could be. Several yachts passed us––steam and sail––all bright and handsome and all bound into Newport, and the skipper’s eyes rested long on them––on one of them particularly with music aboard.

The skipper looked back a long time––looked back, and looked back. He began walking the quarter––back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The sun got lower and lower, the sea lost some of its blue, and the air grew fresher, and still he kept looking back.

“It’ll be a grand sunset to-night, Tommie.”

“The finest kind. But one thing wrong with it.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re not seeing it astern of us.”

The skipper stopped. “Astern? That’s so, too––it is a fine westerly, isn’t it?”

Clancy said nothing, only leaned against the rigging, not a move out of him––puffing his pipe and looking away.

Nobody spoke till the skipper spoke again.

“Who’s to the wheel––you, Steve? How’s she heading now?”

“No’the by west.”

“No’the by west? Put her east by no’the––ease off your mainsheet. Let it go to the knot. Call the gang and make sail––stays’l and balloon––everything––we’ll go home, I guess.”

Clancy snapped the pipe out of his mouth and hove it over the rail. Then he went for the forec’s’le gangway. In two jumps he was there.

“Up, you loafers––on deck and make sail. ‘To 174 the east’ard,’ says the skipper, and over the shoals we’ll put her to-night.”

“Home! Home––good enough––and hurroo!” we could hear from below.

The skipper said nothing more––only all night long he walked the quarter.

Next day when we were almost abreast of Cape Cod Clancy began to instruct me. “Here’s a tip for any girl friends you got, Joe. See the skipper last night? Tell them if they’re after a man––a real man––even if he’s a bit shy––tell them––” Oh, the advice that Clancy could give!

About the time that we left Cape Cod light astern and squared away for Thatcher’s––with Gloucester Harbor almost in sight––with the rocks of Eastern Point dead ahead––Clancy began to sing again:

Ha, Joey-boy?” and gave me a slap on the shoulder that sent me half-way to the break.

That was all right, but I went aloft so I could see the rocks of Cape Ann a mite sooner. I was just beginning to discover that I had been almost homesick.