“By seeing your weather-glass point to fine weather.”
“My weather-glass?”
“Yes—old Mao. He seems to be as satisfied as possible, sitting smoking his opium-pipe and watching his men caulk and varnish the Chee-ho.”
“Well, he does look pretty well content; but it’s weary work waiting, and I feel convinced that the message has never reached the principals.”
“I can see a proof,” cried Stan excitedly, “that you are only looking on the black side of things.”
“What do you mean?” said Blunt, staring at the way in which the lad had sprung to his feet to run to the open window looking down the river.
“Here’s the boat in sight, sir,” cried Lawrence, hurriedly opening the door.
“What! our boat?” cried Blunt excitedly.
“Yes, sir, with Wing showing his signal. Try the glass, sir.”
Blunt snatched the glass offered to him, but before he could get to the window and focus it with his trembling hands, Stan had taken down his own binocular and was leaning out, bringing the matting-sailed boat close into the room, as it were.