"I wonder why Mother always rejoices when there is no wind. It doesn’t appeal to me as a desirable state of things. Pam looks jolly comfortable over there--wish I was in her place! I say, Crow, don’t say we’re going to play the fool like this all day." "Why say anything in such a very short space of time, dear boy," retorted the skipper lazily; "we’ve hardly started--isn’t that thunder, hark?" "It is thunder, my good woman," allowed Adrian, "which means growlings, heat and stickiness immeasurable. Don’t give way to optimistic hopes and picture--first a gentle cooling shower, and then a sweet little breeze that will waft us to Peterock without a tack." Christobel, obstinately happy, lay back in a comfortable position with one arm thrown over the tiller. Suddenly she sat up. A queer little breeze had dropped upon them from the heights. The slack sails filled, the yawl leaned gently to leeward and, with ever-increasing speed, began to cut steadily through the glassy heaving sea. Straight out they went--out and out into the world of blue--the cordage strained and creaked, the hard sails pulled, and _Messenger_ sped through the water with a delicious bubbling hiss. "How’s that, umpire?" demanded Crow, turning a smiling glance on Adrian, "kindly remember next time occasion rises, that it’s never worth while looking on the dark side." "The hot side, you mean," said Adrian unabashed, "where are we going now?" "Out," answered his sister briefly. "Good. Let’s get away from our native land for a bit--it’s stuffy. Besides I want to look at it from a distance, it enlarges one’s mind." So Christobel, like the master mariner in "The Wreck of the Hesperus", "steered for the open sea", and Adrian, whose appetite was enlarging as well as his mind, decided that dinner was of more importance than anything else, and diving into the saloon began fetching up plates, food, cups and lemonade; as _Messenger_ was on an even keel, and the breeze held, the conditions were ideal and there was nothing to worry about. As they ate, they planned the excursion with precision. They were going out, but the ebbing tide was carrying them northward--Peterock way, that is to say; presently they would tack, and from a distance of some seven miles set a straight course on a "soldier’s wind" for the pretty town. They fixed the hour at which they would arrive, how long they would stop, and how short a time it would take them to get back--under the very satisfactory conditions of fair tide and fair wind. As a rule, this is the way of all ways to upset everything; and to-day the rule held good. First the wind dropped--dropped--and ceased. One moment the sails were drawing with firm pressure; actually the next moment they hung limp--not a cord stirring. At the same time, as Crow said, "someone blew the candle out".