Explore "The Refugees" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
For three weeks the wind kept at east or north-east, always at a brisk / breeze and freshening sometimes into half a gale. The _Golden Rod_ sped / merrily upon her way with every sail drawing, alow and aloft, so that by / the end of the third week Amos and Ephraim Savage were reckoning out the / hours before they would look upon their native land once more. To the / old seaman who was used to meeting and to parting it was a small matter, / but Amos, who had never been away before, was on fire with impatience, / and would sit smoking for hours with his legs astride the shank of the / bowsprit, staring ahead at the skyline, in the hope that his friend's / reckoning had been wrong, and that at any moment he might see the / beloved coast line looming up in front of him.
"It's no use, lad," said Captain Ephraim, laying his great red hand upon / his shoulder. "They that go down to the sea in ships need a power of / patience, and there's no good eatin' your heart out for what you can't / get."