There was a faint streak of haze against the line of sea
and sky, abreast the Golden Gate. He had once told her what it meant.
It WAS the steamer! A sudden thought leaped into her clear and active
brain. If the police boat should chance to see that haze too, and saw
no warning signal from the semaphore, they would suspect something. That
signal must be made, BUT NOT THE RIGHT ONE! She remembered quickly
how he had explained to her the difference between the signals for a
coasting steamer and the one that brought the mails. At that distance
the police boat could not detect whether the semaphore's arms were
extended to perfect right angles for the mail steamer, or if the left
arm slightly deflected for a coasting steamer. She ran out to the
windlass and seized the crank. For a moment it defied her strength; she
redoubled her efforts: it began to creak and groan, the great arms were
slowly uplifted, and the signal made.
But the familiar sounds of the moving machinery had pierced through
Jarman's sluggish consciousness as no other sound in heaven or earth
could have done, and awakened him to the one dominant sense he had
left,--the habit of duty.
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