on, sir--isn't she? Looks like a mudflat to me from here."

"Yes. It is a mudflat," said Lingard, slowly, raising the long glass to
his eye. "Haul the mainsail up, Mr. Shaw," he went on while he took a
steady look at the yacht. "We will have to work in short tacks here."

He put the glass down and moved away from the rail. For the next hour
he handled his little vessel in the intricate and narrow channel with
careless certitude, as if every stone, every grain of sand upon the
treacherous bottom had been plainly disclosed to his sight. He handled
her in the fitful and unsteady breeze with a matter-of-fact audacity
that made Shaw, forward at his station, gasp in sheer alarm. When
heading toward the inshore shoals the brig was never put round till the
quick, loud cries of the leadsmen announced that there were no more than
three feet of water under her keel; and when standing toward the steep
inner edge of the long reef, where the lead was of no use, the helm
would be put down only when the cutwater touched the faint line of the
bordering foam. Lingard's love for his brig was a man's love, and was
so great that it could never be appeased unless he called on her to put
forth all her qualities and her power, to repay his exacting affection
by a faithfulness tried to the very utmost limit of endurance. Every
flutter of the sails flew down from aloft along the taut leeches, to
enter his heart in a sense of acute delight; and the gentle murmur of
water alongside, which, continuous and soft, showed that in all her
windings his incomparable craft had never, even for an instant, ceased
to carry her way, was to him more precious and inspiring than the soft
whisper of tender words would have been to another man. It was in such
moments that he lived intensely, in a flush of strong feeling that made
him long to press his little vessel to his breast. She was his perfect
world full of trustful joy.