“Now, I never saw those when I was coming in,” said he. “Where did you get them islands from, Summerhayes? Are they occulting, real, or apparent? Changing your landmarks, like this, is deceiving.”
The Pilot, forgetting the technicalities of his profession, looked at the phenomenon which puzzled the skipper, and said, as gruffly as a bear, “That’s no islands: it’s but a bit of a mirage. Sometimes there’s only one island, sometimes three, sometimes more—it’s accordin’ to circumstances. But what’s this craft coming down the bay? Barque or ship, Sartoris?—I’ve forgot me glass.”
Both men stood on the seaward edge of the island, and looked long and hard at the approaching vessel.
“Barque,” said Sartoris, whose eyes were keener than the older man’s.
“There’s no barque due at this port for a month,” said the Pilot. “The consignees keep me posted up, for to encourage a sharp lookout. The Ida Bell should arrive from London towards the middle of next month, but she is a ship. This must be a stranger, putting in for water or stores; or maybe she’s short-handed.”
For a long time they watched the big craft, sailing before the breeze.
“Sartoris, she’s clewing up her courses and pulling down her head-sails.”
“Isn’t she a trifle far out, Pilot?”
“It’s good holding-ground out there—stiff clay that would hold anything. What did I tell you?—there you are—coming-to. She’s got starn-board. There goes the anchor!”
The skipper had hitherto displayed but little interest in the strange vessel, but now he was shouting and gesticulating, as a flag was run up to her fore-truck.