“There’s a current setting southward; see how the foam patches all drift one way?” said Mr. Preuss.
“Ma foi! It is the whirlpool sucking at them!” muttered Baptiste, tremulously.
“Paddle hard,” encouraged the lieutenant.
Kit had been peering keenly ahead, at the island. He spoke sharply.
“Captain (he called the lieutenant ‘captain,’ which was according to trapper custom), what are those yonder? Just take a look with the glass, won’t you?”
All gazed, half alarmed, while Lieutenant Frémont levelled his long telescope. Between the boat and the island was a peculiar fringe of changing white.
“Oh! Those are only waves, Kit,” announced the lieutenant. “They’re breaking to white-caps. Must be a breeze coming. Beyond still, on the shore of the island, is a row of pelicans, I think.”
The breeze soon struck the boat. Riding high, it made yet slower headway, but it showed no symptoms of capsizing. A good little craft she was.
“Pump, boy,” bade Kit. “Those thar tanks leak wuss’n ever.”
And Oliver plied the bellows.