By-and-by Marston got up and walked about the deck. He dared not think about Flora yet; he must navigate _Columbine_ to Kingston and get Wyndham into hospital. There was a little more wind now and the damp sails did not shake, but the rolling and lurching stopped the schooner. Although it was important to make Kingston soon, one could do nothing to help their progress and Marston presently returned to the wheel. He waited for a time, because he did not want to talk to Rupert. His shrinking from the fellow had not lessened, but he was very tired and limp, and at length he went down and got into his bunk. In the morning the breeze was fresh and _Columbine_ threw the spray about as she plunged across the white combers. At noon, Marston got his sextant to take the sun and sat for some minutes on the skylight calculating the schooner's position. Then he looked up and saw Rupert. "I think the wind will hold," said the latter. "When do you expect to arrive?" Marston told him and added: "You are not on the crew list and since Kingston's a British port we will have to comply with the usual formalities. We must think of a way of accounting for your being on board." He paused and added with a touch of embarrassment: "It may be some time before the doctors let me take Harry home and I don't know----" "You don't know what to do about me?" Rupert suggested with the smile Marston disliked. "Well, suppose you wait until you get there. I imagine I won't bother you much. In the meantime, you haven't hauled your patent-log. Let's see what distance it marks." _Columbine_'s log was old-fashioned. In order to read the dial it was necessary to bring the torpedo-shaped instrument on board, and Rupert, jumping on a grating, put his foot on the low taffrail as he began to haul the line. The line was long, the log, with its spiral vanes, offered some resistance, and Marston, knowing it would be a minute or two before Rupert lifted it out of the water, studied the compass. Looking round, he saw the other's bent figure outlined against the foaming wake; and then he glanced ahead. The wind was fresh and _Columbine_ sailed fast. White combers rolled up to windward and as she plunged across their tops she threw up clouds of spray. In about a minute, Marston looked aft again and braced himself as he gazed at the slanted rail. He had heard no splash or cry, but Rupert had gone. He shouted, and signed to the Kroo steersman, who pulled round the wheel. _Columbine_ shipped some water as, with sails flapping and banging, she came head to wind. The long booms jerked, blocks and ropes whipped to and fro, and the crew began to run about the deck. One or two hauled down the foresail, one or two trimmed the jibs aback, and Marston helped the others at the Burton tackle to hoist out the gig.