We were lying head to north-west, and it was his intention to jibe over all with the first puff.
"We'll have the breeze on our quarter," he explained to me.

"By the last guns the boats were bearing away slightly to the south'ard." He turned and walked aft to the wheel.

I went forward and took my station at the jibs.

Another whisper of wind, and another, passed by.
The canvas flapped lazily.
"Thank Gawd she's not comin' all of a bunch, Mr.Van Weyden," was the Cockney's fervent ejaculation.
And I was indeed thankful, for I had by this time learned enough to know, with all our canvas spread, what disaster in such event awaited us.

The whispers of wind became puffs, the sails filled, the _Ghost_ moved.