Round the southernmost point of the island a small vessel was creeping stealthily. Owing to the lack of wind she could set no canvas, but was evidently being propelled by a number of sweeps.
Undoubtedly it was the brig. I recognized her at once.
Naturally her progress was slow, but our boat was unwieldy and had no great turn of speed. The draughts of air were the merest catspaws, and scarcely ruffled the surface of the water. Flying-fish sprang about us, and occasionally a bonito. The sun was mounting high in the heavens and casting down rays of burning heat. A track of molten gold stretched over the deep, the glare from which was almost intolerable.
“Mother Bunch” shut her jaws with a snap when her dark, round eyes fell on the shadowy vessel. It was as if a crocodile had closed with some succulent morsel. The pickaninny began to roar lustily as if it had a dim presentiment of coming evil. The two negroes jabbered excitedly in some strange and guttural dialect.
“The brig can’t make much way,” said Ned, fixing his eyes intently upon her. “I reckon we can outstrip her as things go at present. If a favourable breeze springs up, however, she’ll overhaul us hand-over-fist, and then we may look out for squalls.”
“The worst of it is, she’s got guns aboard,” observed Mr. Triggs anxiously. “Now, if she could creep up within range, she might pepper us in a mighty unpleasant manner—there’s no question about that.”
“I wonder if she has any boats with her,” exclaimed I. “It might be equally unpleasant if she sent some of them in chase of us.”
Ned looked intently across the sea, shading his eyes with his hand.
“Boats they have, sure enough,” he said after a long survey. “Why, two of ’em is atowin’ of her!”
“That’s what the sharks are up to, is it?” observed the gunner. “I tell you what, that’ll make ’em slip along a bit faster than we expected.”