"We call' em kittiwakes."
A long-beaked, bright steel ninety-footer floated at ease for one
instant within hail of us, her slings coiled ready for rescues,
and a single hand in her open tower. He was smoking. Surrendered
to the insurrection of the airs through which we tore our way, he
lay in absolute peace. I saw the smoke of his pipe ascend
untroubled ere his boat dropped, it seemed, like a stone in a
well.
We had just cleared the Mark Boat and her disorderly neighbours
when the storm ended as suddenly as it had begun. A shooting-star
to northward filled the sky with the green blink of a meteorite
dissipating itself in our atmosphere.
Said George: "That may iron out all the tensions." Even as he
spoke, the conflicting winds came to rest; the levels filled; the
laterals died out in long, easy swells; the air-ways were
smoothed before us. In less than three minutes the covey round
the Mark Boat had shipped their power-lights and whirred away
upon their businesses.
"What's happened?" I gasped.
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