But all times must have an end, and gradually a light in the East proclaimed the coming of another day. The sky was still murky, but not with the dust of the day before. Heavy clouds, not unlike thick smoke, hung over the southern horizon, and these gradually mounted higher and higher until the light of the rising sun was again obscured. The raft was moving on still, but more slowly. The water was just as hot as ever.
“Do you see anything?” questioned Frank, as Mark got up on the highest point of the lumber to look around.
“I think I do,” was the slow answer. “Orlaff, look here.”
The Norwegian sailor readily complied, and Frank joined the pair.
“Dare is somet’ing,” said the sailor, slowly, pointing with his arm. “I t’ink he is a boat—yes, t’ree, four boats. And back in da cloud is a mountain.”
“It must be land!” cried Mark. “Oh, I hope it is!”
“But what is that big cloud?” questioned Frank.
“Some sort of fire, I guess,” returned Mark. “See! see! the boats are coming this way! Oh, Frank! we are saved!”
“I see more boats, Mark! Five, six, eight, ten,—there must be at least twenty of them. The natives must be going out to fish.”
Wild with delight at the approach of the boats, they yelled at the top of their lungs and waved coats and the shirt frantically. Even Sven Orlaff joined in the demonstration, yelling in a voice that sounded as if it was coming through a megaphone.