He could not identify him, for he was not near enough to him to see his face.

A puff of air came from across the river, and the Florence darted ahead, and Christy was soon out of sight of the two strangers.
Near the boundary of his father's estate, he ran the yacht on the sandy beach, letting her strike the sand hard enough to stick where she was for half an hour, though she was not likely to get adrift, for the gentle breeze was blowing her farther on the shore as the tide rose.
Christy hauled down the jib of the sloop, and then seated himself, or rather reclined upon the cushions, though in such a position that he could see the shore, or any persons who came upon it.

No one was in sight, and he had no one to watch.

The swash of a great steamer passing in the channel made his boat roll heavily for a moment, with the forward part of the bottom resting on the sand.

For the want of something better to think of, he began to put conundrums to himself in the absence of any other person to perplex with them.