CHAPTER XXVI.


THE LAST PORT.

For three weeks the wind kept at east or north-east, always at a brisk
breeze and freshening sometimes into half a gale. The _Golden Rod_ sped
merrily upon her way with every sail drawing, alow and aloft, so that by
the end of the third week Amos and Ephraim Savage were reckoning out the
hours before they would look upon their native land once more. To the
old seaman who was used to meeting and to parting it was a small matter,
but Amos, who had never been away before, was on fire with impatience,
and would sit smoking for hours with his legs astride the shank of the
bowsprit, staring ahead at the skyline, in the hope that his friend's
reckoning had been wrong, and that at any moment he might see the
beloved coast line looming up in front of him.

"It's no use, lad," said Captain Ephraim, laying his great red hand upon
his shoulder. "They that go down to the sea in ships need a power of
patience, and there's no good eatin' your heart out for what you can't
get."

"There's a feel of home about the air, though," Amos answered.
"It seems to whistle through your teeth with a bite to it that I never
felt over yonder. Ah, it will take three months of the Mohawk Valley
before I feel myself to rights."

"Well," said his friend, thrusting a plug of Trinidado tobacco into the
corner of his cheek, "I've been on the sea since I had hair to my face,