"Of course there are always boats enough for the passengers—and life-rafts. And they float about for a while and are either picked up by other ships, or the natives row out in their canoes and save them."
"Yes!" gasped Bobby, letting out the great fear at his heart. "But—but suppose she should get cold? You know she has a weak throat. The doctor always tells her to look out for bron—bron-skeeters, or somethin' like that."
"Who has bronchitis?" demanded Barry, rather puzzled.
"My mother."
"Oh! don't you know it's a warm climate down there? Sure! It's in the Tropics. No chance of catching cold—not at all."
"Oh!" murmured Bobby, and he felt somewhat relieved.
"And they've been picked up by some ship bound around the world, maybe—that is why you haven't heard from them. You won't hear till they touch at some port clear across the world, from which they can send mail.
"Or perhaps," said the comforting captain, "they have gone to some tropic island, where boats don't often touch. And the sailors will build shelters for the passengers against the coming of the rainy season, and then a boat-load of volunteers will hike out looking for a civilized port, and it will be months and months before help comes to the island.
"Meanwhile," said the imaginative youngster, his eyes glowing and his cheek flushed, "your mother and the other ladies will get well and strong, and all brown like Indians. And the men will have to dress in goat-skins, for their clothes will wear out, and they'll learn to make fire by rubbing two sticks together, and they'll have fights with jaguars—But no!" exclaimed the big boy, suddenly; "of course, there will be no harmful creatures on an island.
"Say! I guess they're having fun all right. Don't you worry, Bobby."