But the best fun was when the boys were put on the wheel together, Tom Platt within hail, and she cuddled her lee-rail down to the crashing blue, and kept a little home-made rainbow arching unbroken over her windlass.  Then the jaws of the booms whined against the masts, and the sheets creaked, and the sails filled with roaring; and when she slid into a hollow she trampled like a woman tripped in her own silk dress, and came out, her jib wet half-way up, yearning and peering for the tall twin-lights of Thatcher’s Island.

They left the cold gray of the Bank sea, saw the lumber-ships making for Quebec by the Straits of St. Lawrence, with the Jersey salt-brigs from Spain and Sicily; found a friendly northeaster off Artimon Bank that drove them within view of the East light of Sable Island,—­a sight Disko did not linger over,—­and stayed with them past Western and Le Have, to the northern fringe of George’s.  From there they picked up the deeper water, and let her go merrily.

“Hattie’s pulling on the string,” Dan confided to Harvey.  “Hattie an’ Ma.  Next Sunday you’ll be hirin’ a boy to throw water on the windows to make ye go to sleep.  ’Guess you’ll keep with us till your folks come.  Do you know the best of gettin’ ashore again?”

“Hot bath?” said Harvey.  His eyebrows were all white with dried spray.

“That’s good, but a night-shirt’s better.  I’ve been dreamin’ o’ night-shirts ever since we bent our mainsail.  Ye can wiggle your toes then.  Ma’ll hev a new one fer me, all washed soft.  It’s home, Harve.  It’s home!  Ye can sense it in the air.  We’re runnin’ into the aidge of a hot wave naow, an’ I can smell the bayberries.  Wonder if we’ll get in fer supper.  Port a trifle.”

The hesitating sails flapped and lurched in the close air as the deep smoothed out, blue and oily, round them.  When they whistled for a wind only the rain came in spiky rods, bubbling and drumming, and behind the rain the thunder and the lightning of mid-August.  They lay on the deck with bare feet and arms, telling one another what they would order at their first meal ashore; for now the land was in plain sight.  A Gloucester swordfish-boat drifted alongside, a man in the little pulpit on the bowsprit flourished his harpoon, his bare head plastered down with the wet.  “And all’s well!” he sang cheerily, as though he were watch on a big liner.  “Wouverman’s waiting fer you, Disko.  What’s the news o’ the Fleet?”

Disko shouted it and passed on, while the wild summer storm pounded overhead and the lightning flickered along the capes from four different quarters at once.  It gave the low circle of hills round Gloucester Harbor, Ten Pound Island, the fish-sheds, with the broken line of house-roofs, and each spar and buoy on the water, in blinding photographs that came and went a dozen times to the minute as the ‘We’re Here’ crawled in on half-flood, and the whistling-buoy moaned and mourned behind her.  Then the storm died out in long, separated, vicious dags of blue-white flame, followed by a single roar like the roar of a mortar-battery, and the shaken air tingled under the stars as it got back to silence.