"That fishin boat is 'eading this w'y, sir," broke in the steward. "Shall I pass 'er?"
"By all means," responded Dennis, and turned his glasses toward the craft.
Amazement thrilled within him—amazement, and startled unbelief. One figure aboard her was huddled over the engine amidships and could not be discerned; but in the stern, wonder of wonders, sat Florence!
There could be no mistake about it. She was heavily wrapped in fur robes, but Dennis saw her face sharply and distinctly—her pale eager features, her brown eyes fastened upon the whaler, her fur-gloved hand upon the tiller of the boat. With a wild yell of delight Tom Dennis leaped up, waving his arms, and he saw Florence wave back response.
"It's my wife, steward—hurrah!" Dennis ran forward to aid the Cockney. "She must have come all the way from Unalaska in that boat! Here, get your line ready by the diver's ladder in the waist; it'll be an easy climb there. Great glory, what a surprise!"
"Yes, sir," returned the steward, adding: "And werry lucky hit is, sir, as she didn't get 'ere larst night!"
"You bet," said Dennis devoutly. "Thank Heaven for the fog—it must have prevented their trying to make the island!"
As the fishing craft drew in toward the whaler, Dennis recognized the man at her engine—it was the same grizzled fisherman whom he had hired to pick up Jerry. The fisherman shut off his engine and came in to the bow to receive the line which the steward flung; the boat drew in beside the drifting Pelican. Florence, rising stiffly, was aided to the ladder by her bronzed helper, and a moment later Dennis held her in his arms.
"What on earth!" he exclaimed, as she broke into mingled tears and laughter. "What brought you here, dearest?"
"You, Tom!" she exclaimed. "Jerry told us that they meant to send you down in a diving-suit and—and—oh, I'm glad we're not too late! Captain Nickers has been a darling, Tom——"