The boat swung around on idle oars, twenty feet from the rocks that held the stern of the Simpson. Dennis scrutinized the board carefully, then handed the glasses to Pontifex.
"It's tough luck, Skipper," he said quietly. "To think that she lay here undiscovered for over two years, then was found only a week or so before we came!"
"A week?" Pontifex stared at him with flaming eyes. "How d'ye know that?"
"Focus up on those nail-heads in that board. They're rusty, of course, but the rust hasn't gone into the wood around them—see? And the black paint on the board looks pretty glossy when the sunlight catches it right."
"Right you are!" commented the Skipper with a growl.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Do about it!" Pontifex looked venomous. "Fight, by the lord Harry! This is salvage. Whoever can hold hardest, gets. Let me get the old brig anchored in here, and I'd like to see any dirty yellow poachers pry my fingers loose!"
Dennis remembered the big gun-rack in the cabin, and said no more. Rifles can be used for other purposes than killing seals and bears.
"We'll be all snug by breakfast-time," added Pontifex, watching the Pelican come slowly in as her top canvas fluttered down. "Then we'll set to work pronto. We don't want a gale to catch us here, either. More likely to catch fog, anyway."
And the skipper made good his words. Before seven bells were struck at 7.20 that morning* the Pelican was berthed alongside the fore half of the Simpson and all was made snug below and aloft. Captain Pontifex called all hands and made an address.