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"Get out o' my back-hair! That must have been the brake I touched off," Hinchcliffe muttered, and repaired his error tumultuously. We passed the cart as though we had been all Bruges belfry. Agg, from the port-office door, regarded us with a too pacific eye. I remembered later that the pretty postmistress looked on us pityingly. Hinchcliffe wiped the sweat from his brow and drew breath.
The port-office signals were against us, but what did we care? When people on shore realized what we were attempting, they came down by hundreds, in spite of the rain, and thronged the breakwaters on either side of the harbor entrance. We ran gallantly, straight before the wind. I never thought a lighter could sail as ours did.
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