They sat watching for about a quarter of an hour longer, and then Jack exclaimed softly—
“You were wrong, Ned, it was a star, and it has sank out of sight.”
“Down in the east, sir?”
“It cannot be the east, Ned, it must be the west.”
“Then it’s last night again, sir, and that’s a speck left up to show where the sun went down.”
As Ned spoke he pointed to where there was a faint flush of light, which grew warmer and warmer as Jack sat trying to keep from being too sanguine. Then he turned away and feared to gaze aft any more, oh account of the blacks, who were paddling steadily away, for against a pale streak of light in the east, there, plainly enough to be seen, were the hull and spars of the Silver Star, while like a pennon there floated out behind her a long dark cloud of smoke, telling that her engine fires were roaring away and her propeller hard at work.
“I was afraid to hope, Ned,” whispered Jack. “Think they see us?”
“Think they see us, sir! Why, of course. Mr Bartlett’s up in the main-top with his glass to his eye, you may be sure, and the lads below are shovelling in the coals as if they cost nothing. Look at the smoke. I say, see how the niggers are at it. They know. Shouldn’t be surprised if we catch sight of the place we’re going to when the sun’s up. All I hope is that it’s so far away that they can’t reach it.”
The sun rose at last, and the mountain became glorified once more, but it was a long time before a glimpse could be caught of their destination, and then, like a faint cloud extending right and left for miles, there was land—dim, low-lying misty land, without a sign of elevation or peak.
“That’s it sure enough, Mr Jack, sir,” said Ned, shading his eyes from the glare of the sea; “and now it’s a question of paddles against screw.”