Kirk was with her, questing joyously down the brick path, and breathing
the warm, wet smell of the waking earth.
Ken struck down to the docks; even before he reached the last dingy
street he could see the tall masts of a sailing-ship rising above the
warehouse roofs. It was with a quickened beat of the heart that he ran
the last few steps, and saw her in all her quiet dignity--the
_Celestine_, four-masted schooner. It was not often that sailing vessels
came into this port. Most of the shipping consisted of tugs with their
barges, high black freighters, rust-streaked; and casual tramp steamers
battered by every wind from St. John's to Torres Straits. The
_Celestine_ was, herself, far from being a pleasure yacht. Her bluff
bows were salt-rimed and her decks bleached and weather-bitten. But she
towered above her steam-driven companions with such stalwart grace, such
simple perfection, that Ken caught his breath, looking at her.
The gang-plank was out, for she lay warped in to one of the wharves, and
Ken went aboard and leaned at the rail beside a square man in a black
jersey, who chewed tobacco and squinted observantly at the dock. From
this person, at first inclined to be taciturn, Ken learned that the
_Celestine_ was sailing the next night, bound for Rio de Janeiro, "and
mebbe further." Rio de Janeiro! And here she lay quietly at the slimy
wharf, beyond which the gray northern town rose in a smoky huddle of
chimney-pots.
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