Near the straggling settlement at the cove a group of shacks had sprung up to shelter the “Portygees” from the stranded-vessel.  As her bones were slowly engulfed in the marching sands, through the decades that passed, the people who had come ashore from the big wreck had waxed well to do, bred families of strong, handsome, brown men and black-eyed, glossy-haired women who flashed their white teeth in smiles that were almost startling.  Now one end of “the port,” as the village of Big Wreck Cove was usually called by the natives, was known as Portygee Town.

Wreckers’ Head boasted of several homes of retired shipmasters and owners of Cap’n Ira’s ilk.  These ancient sea dogs, on such a day as this, were unfailingly found “walking the poop” of their front yards, or wherever they could take their diurnal exercise, binoculars or spyglass in hand, their vision more often fixed seaward than on the land.

Cap’n Ira had scarcely put the glass to his eye for a first squint at his “position” when he exclaimed: 

“I swan!  That’s a master-pretty sight.  I ain’t seen a prettier in many a day.  Come here and look at this craft, Prudence.”

She hurried to join him.  Her motions when she was on her feet were birdlike, yet there was the same unsteadiness in her walk as in Cap’n Ira’s.  Only, at the moment, he did not see it, for his eye was glued to the telescope.

“What do you see, Ira?” she asked.

“Clap this glass to your eye,” said her husband.  He steadied the telescope, having pointed it for her.  “See that suit of sails?  Ain’t they grand?  And the taper of them masts?  She’s a bird!”

“Why, what schooner is it?” asked Prudence.  “I never saw her before, did I?  She’s bearing in for the cove.”

“I cal’late she is,” agreed Cap’n Ira.  “And I cal’late by the newness of that suit of sails and her lines and all that she’s Tunis Latham’s new craft that he went up to Marblehead last week to bring down here and put into commission.”

“The Seamew!” cried Prudence, in a pleased voice.  “Isn’t she a pretty sight?”

“She’s a sightly craft.  Looks more like a racing yacht than a cargo boat.  Still and all, Tunis has got judgment.  And he’s put nigh every cent he’s got, all Peke Latham left him, into this schooner.  And she not new.”

“I hope Tunis has made no mistake,” sighed Prudence, releasing the glass for Ira to look through once more.  “There has been trouble enough over Peleg Latham’s money.”

“More trouble than the money amounted to.  Split the family wide open.  ’Rion Latham was saying to me he believed Peke never meant the money should go all one way.  The Medway Lathams, them ’Rion belongs to, is all as sore as carbuncles about Tunis getting it.  But I tell Tunis as long as the court says the money should be his, let ’Rion and all them yap like the hungry dogs they be.  Tunis has got the marrer bone.”

“Does seem a pity,” the old woman said, still watching the white splotch against the background of gray and blue.  “Families ought to be at peace.”