“Now, this wreck,” said Joshua presently: “where will it be?”
Harry jumped to his feet.
“Mighty!” he exclaimed. “We must be thinking of moving if we want to pull out to it. Tide’s at ebb, Dicky, and near the turn. Thereabouts it lies, Mr. Pilbrow, on the Weary Sands; but we can’t just make it out in this haze.”
“Well, for the boat,” I said, scrambling up; and we all made for the Gap together. It was then half an hour past midday.
“A bad time,” said I. “What fools we were not to think of it before! There won’t be a soul about.”
There was one soul, however, it appeared—a gaunt solitary figure, which, as we neared the head of the sandy slope, we could see silhouetted against the sky—a figure, too, which, from its restless craning attitude, one might have thought was expecting us.
Harry edged up to me, and was on the point of whispering, when he caught Joshua’s eyes fixed upon him. He giggled, and looked silly.
“I was thinking, sir,” began he, “that that man there——” and then he stopped.
“Well, what about him?” said the other.
“Why,” said Harry, so confused as to forget himself—“if—if you want to know about smugglers, he’s the chap to tell you, that’s all.”