“There you go,” said Harman, “startin’ out after your own ideas and chasin’ them till they look like a man. Think bad of a chap and he’ll look bad—that’s my motto, and I’m not goin’ to think bad of Keller.”
But Davis had lost interest in Keller. Something out at sea had caught his eye, and taking Harman by the arm, he pointed over the dead calm water.
“Look there,” said he.
Harman, shading his eyes, looked in the direction indicated.
“It ain’t the pa’m toddy, is it?” asked Harman.
“No,” said the other, “it’s a craft of some sort or another; what do you make of her?”
“Nuthin’, she ain’t nacheral—looks like a cross between Noah’s ark an’ a floatin’ hayrick rigged with a double set of masts and a—— Why, Lord bless my soul if she ain’t a junk, a junk and a schooner lashed together, that’s what she is, derelick and driftin’.”
“Sure,” said Davis, his mind jumping at once to the truth. “Call Keller—run and roust him out. Here he comes. Keller, hi, Keller! Ship drifting out beyond the reefs. Look sharp!” He had no need to give directions. Like a vulture scenting a carcass, Keller came swooping, shaded his eyes and stood.
“It’s a junk and schooner,” said Harman.
“Bêche-de-mer boat or opium smuggler,” said Keller, “and they’re both abandoned and driftin’. There’s pickin’s here, boys. After me!” He raced down to the beach, followed by the others, to where the boat was hauled up, they pushed her out and, Keller steering, made through the fairway, past the submerged rock towards the open sea.