“Fish,” said Jem in a whisper, “trying to climb up into the ship, and then tumbled back into the sea.”
“Nonsense!” said Don, shortly. “Now you look to the left, and I’ll look to the right.”
“Right, my lad. I’ll look, but she won’t come.”
The searching scrutiny went on, and to Don, as he strained his eyes, it seemed as if all kinds of uncouth-looking monsters kept looming up out of the sea and disappearing; and though from time to time he told himself that it was all fancy, the various objects that his excited vision formed were so real that it was hard to believe that they were only the coinage of his fancy.
He turned and looked on board at the various lights, faintly-seen, with the result that his eyes were rested, while he listened to the monotonous talking of the watch and an occasional burst of laughter from the gunroom, or the regular murmur from the forecastle.
Then he watched shoreward again for the faint golden flash made by the paddles of Ngati’s canoe.
No lambent glow, no sound of paddling, not even a murmur from the shore, where the native huts were gathered together, and the great whare stood with its singularly carved posts representing human form over human form in strange combinations, with grotesque heads, pearly shell eyes, and tongues protruding from distorted mouths.
Then Jem caught Don’s arm in turn, for there was a splash far away to the left, below where, faintly-seen, a great sugar-loaf mountain rose high into the heavens.
The splash was not repeated, but, just as they had given up listening for it, once more the dull sawing sound came out of the darkness, but this time, instead of being forward it was away aft—how far they could not tell, for in the darkness sounds, like lights, may be close at hand or a couple of hundred yards away—it is hard to tell which.
The faint sawing went on for some time, ceased, and was renewed, to finish as before with a curious rustling and a splash.