“She's a bark,” he muttered, “iron built—about seven hundred tons, I guess—in distress. There's her ensign upside down at the mizz'nhead—looks like Norway—an' her distress signals on the spanker gaff. Take a blink at her, son—what do you make her out? Lord, she's ridin' high.”
Wilbur took the glass, catching the stranger after several clumsy attempts. She was, as Captain Kitchell had announced, a bark, and, to judge by her flag, evidently Norwegian.
“How she rolls!” muttered Wilbur.
“That's what I can't make out,” answered Kitchell. “A bark such as she ain't ought to roll thata way; her ballast'd steady her.”
“What's the flags on that boom aft—one's red and white and square-shaped, and the other's the same color, only swallow-tail in shape?”
“That's H. B., meanin: 'I am in need of assistance.'”
“Well, where's the crew? I don't see anybody on board.”
“Oh, they're there right enough.”
“Then they're pretty well concealed about the premises,” turned Wilbur, as he passed the glass to the Captain.
“She does seem kinda empty,” said the Captain in a moment, with a sudden show of interest that Wilbur failed to understand.