“Don’t see anything the matter with it,” replied Luke.
But one can never prophesy regarding a motor-boat engine.
St. Sergius was twenty-five miles behind them, and the nearer of the chain of small islands was not less than ten miles away, when the power went wrong on the Isobel.
“That comes of blowing about how fine she worked without knocking wood,” grumbled Neale O’Neil.
“Is it going to keep us long?” asked Agnes.
“What a ridiculous question that is!” rejoined her friend. “Am I a prophet, or the son of a prophet? What do you say, Luke?”
Luke had been scanning the horizon to westward. He stepped down into the cockpit of the Isobel with some haste.
“I tell you what I think about one thing, Neale,” he whispered in the latter’s ear. “There is going to be a change in the weather—and a big change—within a very short time.”
“For the worse?” asked Neale, startled.
“It couldn’t be for the better,” replied Luke. “We’ve had a perfect day; but the end of it is going to be squally. And I’ve heard that even at this time of year, which is not the hurricane season, the weather in this part of the Caribbean can be distinctly nasty.”