“What is that, over yonder?” asked she—“it looks like a wreck of some kind.”
“It is a wreck—that of a lighthouse,” I told her. “It is lying flat on its side, a poor attitude for a lighthouse. The great tidal wave of the gulf storm, four years ago, destroyed it. We are now, to tell the truth, at the edge of that district which causes the Weather Bureau much uncertainty—a breeding ground of the tropical cyclones that break between the Indies and this coast.”
“And you bring us here?”
“Only to pass to the inner channels, madam, where we should be safer in case of storm. To-night, we shall anchor in the lee of a long island, where the lighthouse is still standing, in its proper position, and where we shall be safe as a church.”
“Sharks! Storms! Shipwrecks!” moaned she.
—“And pirates,” added I gently, “and cannibals. Yes, madam, your plight is serious, and I know not what may come of it all—I wish I did.”
“Well, no good will come of it, one thing sure,” said Aunt Lucinda, preparing to weep.
And indeed, an instant later, my mournful skipper seemed to bear her out. I saw Peterson standing expectant, a little forward, now.
“Well, Peterson?” I rose and went to him.
“I beg pardon, sir, Mr. Harry,” said he somewhat anxiously, “but we’ve bent her port shaft on a cursed oyster reef.”