But the next short tack seemed to bring the boat no nearer than
before, and the long leg carried it so far away that it was no more
use shouting to the orange sail than to a stupid old herring-gull.

"Could you wave for a bit, Chris?" Jerry said. "My arms are off."

So I took the shirt and waved it by its sleeves, and the catboat
began another short tack. It was just then that we saw something
black flap-flapping against the sail.

"They've tied a coat or something to the flag halyard, and they're
running it up and down," Jerry said. "They're trying to get here,
but they _have_ to tack. Don't you _see_, Chris?"

Of course I saw, but I didn't blame Jerry for being snappy at the
last minute.

The next tack showed very plainly that the boat was really coming to
the Sea Monster, and somebody stood up in the stern and shouted. We
shouted back--one last howl--and then stood there panting, because
there was no use in wasting any more breath and our throats were
quite split as it was. When the catboat came a little nearer we saw
that there was only one man in it, and, sure enough, an old blue
jersey was tied to the flag halyard. The man turned the boat around
very neatly--I don't know the right sailing word for it--and
anchored. Then he climbed into the dinghy that was trailing along
behind and began rowing to the Sea Monster.

I sat down on the rock and I had to keep swallowing, because I felt