Taking his own shape once more, Chris saw the white ghost-like sides of the Mirabelle soundlessly passing down stream. Not a creak nor a splash of water came from her as she passed, but from the stern a tiny light, struck by a flint perhaps, blinked once, and twice, and then a third time.
"Now!" came Mr. Wicker's low voice. "Let me have my hand upon that rope!"
He only seemed to hold the anchor rope a moment and give it an easy pull. The tugging strain was suddenly gone and the Venture veered away like a frightened waterfowl.
"Will she go where she should, sir?" Chris wanted to know, leaning forward.
"That she will, Christopher!" came the familiar voice in the dark. "And we must get out of her way, for here she comes down at us. The wind and the tide and—hm-m—other forces will drive her solidly upon the bar. If I mistake not, it will be several days before they get her off," and on the night air Chris heard a faint short chuckle.
"Pull, boy!" his master told him sharply. "Here she comes!"
Chris grasped his oar and spun the boat only in time, for the down-flowing tide and rising wind combined to drive the Venture forward at increasing speed. The tide being still high, the ship was carried well upon the sandbar before it grounded, lolling over to one side much like the sleeping sailors.
"Quick, lad! Now we must catch the Mirabelle, and you and I must part."
"Oh, sir!" Chris cried, holding his oar above the water and turning his head toward the man beside him. Mr. Wicker clapped Chris on the shoulder and a glint of moonlight showed him to be smiling.