“I’ll say they were here!” he announced as the others hurried to where he stood at the head of a deep indentation or cove in the rocky shore. “Look here,” he continued, pointing to the bit of sandy beach, “a boat’s been pulled up on the sand here within the last twenty-four hours and there are their empty gasolene tins. Guess my hunch wasn’t so far wrong after all.”
“Hmm,” muttered Mr. Pauling, as he examined the marks on the beach and sniffed at the empty tin cans. “I’ll have to admit your hunch was right, but it doesn’t do us much good. Our birds have flown.”
“Yes, hang it all!” exclaimed Rawlins. “They probably saw us coming and cleared out, but they’ll have to land again somewhere.”
“That’s quite true and all very well,” agreed Mr. Pauling, “but we haven’t the least idea where or when. No, it’s no use trying to chase all over the Caribbean after them. There’s nothing to do but go back and await future developments. I’m willing to admit we’ve been beaten.”
“Yes, the gang’s broken up and the tramp and their big submarine destroyed. I doubt if they’ll give further trouble,” said Mr. Henderson. “I think we’ve succeeded in accomplishing a great deal as it is.”
While they were talking, they approached the waiting cutter. Suddenly a screeching roar from the destroyer’s siren drowned the clamor of the birds.
“Jove! What’s that for?” exclaimed Mr. Henderson. “Hello, Disbrow’s signaling. Can you read the wigwag message, Rawlins?”
The diver stared fixedly at the figure of a sailor standing clearly outlined on the destroyer’s bridge and rapidly waving the little flags in an endeavor to convey some message to those on the island.
“Come a-b-o-a-r-d,” translated Rawlins, as the flags flashed up and down. “I-m-p-o-r-t-a-n-t n-e-w-s.”
“By glory!” he ejaculated, as the sailor finished and the message ended. “What in blazes has he seen?”