"Well," she said, giving it up, "I mean to see what has happened and
where we are at, as those American newspapers put it. We must be safe
somewhere, for they are washing down decks just as usual."
"I wonder if father slept a wink all night," said Faith. "If he didn't
then he is probably resting now, so we must be careful not to disturb
him."
"That's true. I'll be like a mouse!" Hope was hurrying into a pink
_robe de chambre_, which the girls best liked to call a pajama, and now
slipped her feet into a pair of little Turkish slippers, all toe and
sole, and opening the communicating door, peered into the library. It
was empty, but her father's tarpaulins, in a heap on the floor, just
outside his stateroom door, showed he was within, so she moved very
softly across to the broad outlook of windows.
In a minute she went flying back in silent swiftness. "Come, Faith,"
she whispered excitedly, "it's the finest thing you ever saw!"
Soon both pajamaed figures were looking with great eyes at the novel
scene before them. They found themselves anchored in some large harbor
amid a forest of shipping, much of it the oddest they had ever seen.
Instead of the straight, strong masts they were accustomed to, here
were those that shot up so tall and slender they seemed to bend over of
their own weight, like a young sapling. To these rapier-like masts
were fastened sails of quaint square shape and dingy hues, or of sharp
triangular form, which they learned afterwards were the lateen sails
they had read of, but never seen.
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