Cyrus Townsend Brady

The Grip Of Honor Cyrus Townsend Brady

"The wind is freshening; we gain upon her easily, I think, sir." "Decidedly. This is our best point of sailing, and our best wind, too. We can't be going less than ten knots," said the captain, looking critically over the bows at the water racing alongside. "I can almost make out the name on her stern now with the naked eye," replied the other, staring hard ahead through the drift and spray. "Have you a glass there, Mr. O'Neill?" asked the captain. "Yes, sir, here it is," answered that gentleman, handing him a long, old-fashioned, cumbrous brass telescope, which he at once adjusted and focused on the ship they were chasing. "Ah!" said the elder of the two speakers, a small, slender man, standing lightly poised on the topgallant forecastle with the careless confidence of a veteran seaman, as he examined the chase through the glass which the taller and younger officer handed him; "I can read it quite plainly with this. The M-a-i-d--Maidstone, a trader evidently, as I see no gun-ports nor anything that betokens an armament." He ran the tubes of the glass into each other and handed it back, remarking, "At this rate we shall have her in a short time."