“Perry!” suddenly rang out a cry, with a note of strident urgency, “get me my field-glass, quick!”
Wondering, but realizing the note of haste in the command, the boy jumped into full stride along the deck and down the companion way. He was back in half a minute, taking the glass out of the case as he ran. Already the rail was crowded with figures, but they made way for him. He handed the field-glass breathlessly to the professor, and looked, with an intensity that made his eyes burn, in the direction whither the binocular was pointing.
“It’s a boat,” he said, “a little boat; no, two boats; no, three—”
He clutched his uncle’s arm.
“Those aren’t boats—” he began, and stopped.
About a quarter of a mile away, the even blue ripples of the great inland sea were broken by something black that seemed to be advancing on the ship, moving on a line that converged upon the vessel’s course. Excitement sent the boy’s heart thumping like the engines of the steamer, and when, a moment later, without a word, his uncle handed the glass to him, his hands shook so much that he could hardly focus the instrument.
There leaped into view, in the field of the glass, a broad head, something like that of a seal, but poised upon a thick, long neck. He could have sworn there were long coils behind, but he could not see them.
“The Dædalus—” he half panted.
“My camera!” came a second crisp order.
Perry handed back the glass, which the professor almost snatched from his grasp.