Two or three days passed. The hands kept steadily at their work. Nothing more occurred to disturb the monotony of the scorching days and soundless nights; the schooner sat as easily on the unbroken water as though built to the bottom. Soon the night watch was discontinued. During these days the three officers lived high. Turtle were plentiful, and what with their steaks and soups, the fried abalones, the sea-fish, the really delicious shark-fins, and the quail that Charlie and Wilbur trapped along the shore, the trio had nothing to wish for in the way of table luxuries.
The shore was absolutely deserted, as well as the back country—an unbroken wilderness of sand and sage. Half a dozen times, Wilbur, wearying of his inaction aboard the schooner, made the entire circuit of the bay from point to point. Standing on one of the latter projections and looking out to the west, the Pacific appeared as empty of life as the land. Never a keel cut those waters, never a sail broke the edge of the horizon, never a feather of smoke spotted the sky where it whitened to meet the sea. Everything was empty—vast, unspeakably desolate—palpitating with heat.
Another week passed. Charlie began to complain that the shark were growing scarce again.
“I think bime-by him go away, once a mo'.”
That same night, Wilbur, lying in his hammock, was awakened by a touch on his arm. He woke to see Moran beside him on the deck.
“Did you hear anything?” she said in a low voice, looking at him under her scowl.
“No! no!” he exclaimed, getting up, reaching for his wicker sandals. “Did you?”
“I thought so—something. Did you feel anything?”
“I've been asleep, I haven't noticed anything. Is it beginning again?”
“The schooner lifted again, just now, very gently. I happened to be awake or I wouldn't have noticed it.” They were talking in low voices, as is the custom of people speaking in the dark.