“Nay,” cried Billy, “that’s a fire. You can see it gleam on the water.”
“Hurrah!” cried Gregory, “then that means home, and they are keeping it up as a guide.”
Another quarter of an hour’s rowing proved this, for a big fire was blazing upon the sand, and before long they were able to make out moving figures and the fire being replenished, the leaping up of the flames and the ruddy smoke ascending high in the air.
“Now, then, give a hail,” said the captain, “to let them know we’re safe. They’ll think we are coming from the other direction.”
Billy Widgeon uttered a loud “Ahoy!” and then putting two fingers in his mouth, brought forth an ear-piercing whistle.
A distant “Ahoy!” came back, and a whistle so like Billy Widgeon’s that it might have been its echo, while directly after there was a flash and then a report.
“A signal from the major,” said the captain. “There, Mark, a chance for you. Fire in the air.”
Mark caught up the gun, held the butt on the thwart, and drew trigger, when the flash and report cut the air and echoed from the wood.
Another ten minutes’ hard pull and the boat touched the sands close to the fire, where all were gathered in eager expectancy of the lost voyagers, who had, to meet the complaints about dread and anxiety, the news of their discoveries.
“But you have not been much alarmed, I hope?” said the captain, drawing his wife’s hand through his arm.