Hey?
What's that?
Dost see her, Zeb ?" For Zeb, with his right hand pressing down his cap, now suddenly flung his left out in the direction of Bradden Point.

Men and women craned forward.
Below the distant promontory, a darker speck had started out of the medley of grey tones.

In a moment it had doubled its size--had become a blur--then a shape.

And at length, out of the leaden wrack, there emerged a small schooner, with tall, raking masts, flying straight towards them.
"Dear God!" muttered some one, while Ruby dug her finger-tips into Zeb's arm.
The schooner raced under bare poles, though a strip or two of canvas streamed out from her fore-yards.

Yet she came with a rush like a greyhound's, heeling over the whitened water, close under the cliffs, and closer with every instant.