Her mainsail was looped up, and her topsail flapped undecidedly in what little wind was moving.

Now a bark is feminine beyond all other daughters of the sea, and this tall, hesitating creature, with her white and gilt figurehead, looked just like a bewildered woman half lifting her skirts to cross a muddy street under the jeers of bad little boys.

That was very much her situation.

She knew she was somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Virgin, had caught the roar of it, and was, therefore, asking her way.
This is a small part of what she heard from the dancing dories: "The Virgin?
Fwhat are you talkin' of?
'This is Le Have on a Sunday mornin'.

Go home an' sober up." "Go home, ye tarrapin! Go home an' tell 'em we're comin'." Half a dozen voices together, in a most tuneful chorus, as her stern went down with a roll and a bubble into the troughs: "Thay-aah-she-strikes!" "Hard up! Hard up fer your life! You're on top of her now." "Daown! Hard daown! Let go everything!" "All hands to the pumps!" "Daown jib an' pole her!" Here the skipper lost his temper and said things.