“Do you make out any signals, Mr Webster?”
“No, sir; but I can’t see a single boat, and it seems to me the tackle is hanging from the davits.”
“Strange,” muttered the Captain; “for there have been no indications of storm. Maybe the boats are out for some business of life-saving.” And he swept his glass to right and left of the steamer, which was rapidly taking shape to the naked eye.
“Bring her round a couple of spokes—so. Hold her at that.” The Swift bore down straight for the stranger, and for some minutes not a word was spoken on her, as every man eagerly searched the ship, and then the smooth water about her, for the first trace of any sign that would explain the mystery of her fixed and lonely state. The belt of sea beyond widened out, her straight bows rose higher; a sailor picked out the red band round her funnel, and now one, and then another, with a quick cry, averred they saw men on board; but yet there was no sign of her boats, or trace of smoke.
“She has a slight list to starboard, Mr Webster.”
“I marked that, sir; but she has not settled down, and can’t be making water.”
“She looks over seaworthy for a castaway. Who is it can see a man on board?”
The sailor Dick touched his cap. “There’s a chap swinging on the starboard side, sir, just below the forward davits, and there’s another lying on the booby-trap.”
The other men looked at Dick, then, with knitted brows under the shade of their flat palms, gazed intently at the spots indicated; but, failing to make out any object so small at such a distance, they all turned to watch the Captain, and judged from the sharp inquiring glance he threw at the Lieutenant before taking a longer view that there was now some key to the mystery.
“There certainly is a man up aloft, and another hanging at the side; but he is strangely still.”