The feel of the cricket ball caught clean in the centre of the bat, sent in one clear flight to square leg across the boundary line, is glorious. Frank knew the exultation of such moments. The dash across the goal line from a swiftly taken pass is a thing to live for. Frank, as a fast three-quarter back, knew that too. But this tearing of a heeling boat through bubbling green water became to him, when he got over the first terror of it, a delirious joy. “That’s Inishminna ahead of us to windward,” said Priscilla. “Flanagan lives there, who hired him the old boat. He might be there, but he isn’t. I can see the whole slope of the island. We’ll slip under the lee of the end of it past Illaunglos. It’s a likely enough island.” Frank suddenly remembered that they were in pursuit of a German spy. The remainder of his scepticism forsook him. Amid such surroundings, with the singing of the wind and the gurgling swish of the flying boat in his ears, any adventure seemed possible. The prosaic limitations of ordinary life dropped off from him. Only it seemed a pity to find the spy, since finding him would stop their sailing. “I say, Priscilla,” he said. “Don’t let us bother about the old spy. Let’s go on sailing.” “Just hunker down a bit,” said Priscilla, “and look under the foot of the sail. I can’t see to leeward. Is there anything like a tent on that island?” Frank curled himself into a cramped and difficult attitude. He peered under the sail and made his report. “There’s nothing there,” he said, “except three bullocks. But I can only see two sides of the island.” “We’ll open the north side in a minute,” said Priscilla. “He can’t be at the west end of it, for it is all bluff and boulders. If he isn’t on the north shore he’s not there at all. Frank twisted himself again into the bottom of the boat, and peeped under the sail. The north shore of Illaunglos held no tent. “Good,” said Priscilla. “Well stand on. The next island is Inishark. He may be there. There’s a well on it, and he’d naturally want to camp somewhere within reach of water.” Frank, still curled up beside the centreboard case, gazed under the sail at Inishark. The boat, swaying and dipping in a still freshening breeze, sped on. “Is there any large white stone on the ridge of the island?” he asked. “No,” said Priscilla. “There isn’t a white stone of any size in the whole bay. It’s most likely a sheep.” “It’s not a sheep. Nobody ever saw a sheep with a back that went up into a point. I believe it’s the top of a tent. Steer for it, Priscilla.” Frank was aglow with excitement. The sailing intoxicated him. The sight of the triangular apex of the tent put himself beside himself. “Turn the boat, Priscilla. Go down to the island.” Priscilla was cooler. “We’ll hold on a minute,” she said, “and make sure. There’s no use running all that way down to leeward until we’re certain. We’d only have to beat up again.” “It is a tent,” said Frank. “I can see now. There are two tents.”