He had
grown chill, but a long wrestle with the surf warmed his blood, and as he
reclothed himself and with a better step took his way along the beach
toward his tent a returning zest of manhood refreshed his spirit. The hour
was up, but in a kind of equilibrium of impulses and with much emptiness
of mind, he let it lengthen on, made a fire, and for the first time in two
days cooked food. He ate and still tarried. A brand in his camp fire, a
piece from the remnant of his boat, made beautiful flames. He idly cast in
another and was pleased to find himself sitting there instead of gazing
his eyes out for sails that never rose into view. He watched a third brand
smoke and blaze. And then, as tamely as if the new impulse were only
another part of a continued abstraction, he arose and once more climbed
the sandy hills. The highest was some distance from his camp. At one point
near its top a brief northeastward glimpse of the marsh's outer edge and
the blue waters beyond showed at least that nothing had come near enough
to raise the pelicans. But the instant his sight cleared the crown of the
ridge he rushed forward, threw up his arms, and lifted his voice in a
long, imploring yell. Hardly two miles away, her shapely canvas leaning
and stiffening in the augmented breeze, a small yacht had just gone about,
and with twice the speed at which she must have approached was, hurrying
back straight into the north.
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