Deficient Saints by Marshall Saunders

At ten o'clock that night, there was not in all the State an uglier and sorer man than H. Robinson.

He impatiently thumped Miss Gastonguay's binocular on his fat knee. All the afternoon he had been searching the glittering surface of Merry Meeting Bay. There was no steam yacht in sight carrying a blue flag with a pine-tree on its fluttering folds. No brace of blue lights appeared now that soft darkness had enveloped the Bay, although various yachts and boats bearing lights of every other colour of the rainbow had come slipping in from the sea to their resting-places beside the wharves.