“Pearls!” cried Davis, “you aren’t talking of the pearls!”
Towards sunset, steering into the golden remote and unknown west, the dejected Harman, breaking an all-day silence, perked up a bit and became almost cheerfully philosophic.
“The only good p’int about all this business,” said he, “the one bright p’int——”
“Oh, shut up,” said Davis, “you and your p’ints.”
CHAPTER IV.
SUNK WITHOUT TRACE
I
The mat sail flapped against the mast and then hung loose while the chuckle of bow and outrigger died away. Harman, turning his face to the east, all gone watery with the dawn, leant forward and gave his sleeping companion a prod with the steering paddle.
Cruising in a South Sea island canoe tries the temper as well as the judgment, and two days of this business had considerably shortened the temper of Billy Harman.
For two days and two nights, fed on bananas and island truck, and led by the pointing of an indifferent compass, they had pursued the west, chased by the light of gorgeous dawns, broiled by midday suns, raising nothing but endless horizons and consuming sunsets.
“Wind’s gone!” cried Harman. “Flat calm and looks like stayin’ put.”