"
"Let me have the box," said Mrs. Anthony in a hurried and familiar
whisper which sounded amused as if they had been a couple of children up
to some lark behind a wall. He was glad of the offer which seemed to him
very natural, and without ceremony--
"Here you are. Catch hold."
Their hands touched in the dark and she took the box while he held the
paraffin soaked torch in its iron holder. He thought of warning her:
"Look out for yourself." But before he had the time to finish the
sentence the flare blazed up violently between them and he saw her throw
herself back with an arm across her face. "Hallo," he exclaimed; only he
could not stop a moment to ask if she was hurt. He bolted out of the
companion straight into his captain who took the flare from him and held
it high above his head.
The fierce flame fluttered like a silk flag, throwing an angry swaying
glare mingled with moving shadows over the poop, lighting up the concave
surfaces of the sails, gleaming on the wet paint of the white rails. And
young Powell turned his eyes to windward with a catch in his breath.
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