Dorothy stopped short. “That’s not Mr. Howard’s voice—nor Mr. Jackson’s,” she gasped. “Who——”
Cautiously she peered from the door and looked around anxiously. Two unknown sailors were standing on the deck of the fire-blackened steamer that lay across the bows of the Queen. As she stared, one of them hailed again. “Ahoy, the steamer!” he shouted.
Dorothy’s first feeling was one of delight. There were people then in this place of desolation, and people, to Dorothy, meant civilization and all that it connotes—including facilities of communication with the world. She was about to answer the hail when something made her hesitate. It might be all right, but she was alone. She turned, and, slipping back to the galley fire, rapidly thrust into it an armful of wet straw. An exclamation outside, faintly heard, showed that the smoke had changed accordingly. Twice she repeated the signal with an interval between; then warned by the thump of feet on the deck overhead, she thrust in a last armful and hurried toward the companionway.
As she reached its top, the sailors appeared at the door. Dorothy bowed.
“Good morning, gentlemen!” she cried. The men started back with one accord; their hands flew to their caps and pulled them from their heads. One seemed too amazed for speech, but the other was somewhat bolder.
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” he stammered. “I—we—Bill an’ me hailed, but—I hopes you’re well, ma’am.”
Dorothy smiled. “Yes! I’m well,” she returned, “and very glad to see you. Tell me, do you live here?”
“On this ship, ma’am? No, ma’am.”
“Oh, no, I know you don’t live on this ship, for we have just drifted in on it. I mean here.”
She waved her hand comprehensively.