The breeze was not quite so fresh next morning, but it had been blowing fairly all the night, and the Raratonga had made good way. About eleven it began to fail. It became the lightest sailing breeze, just sufficient to keep the sails drawing, and the wake rippling and swirling behind. Suddenly Stannistreet, who had been standing talking to Lestrange, climbed a few feet up the mizzen ratlins, and shaded his eyes.
“What is it?” asked Lestrange.
“A boat,” he replied. “Hand me that glass you will find in the sling there.”
He levelled the glass, and looked for a long time without speaking.
“It’s a boat adrift—a small boat, nothing in her. Stay! I see something white, can’t make it out. Hi there!”—to the fellow at the wheel “Keep her a point more to starboard.” He got on to the deck. “We’re going dead on for her.”
“Is there any one in her?” asked Lestrange.
“Can’t quite make out, but I’ll lower the whale-boat and fetch her alongside.”
He gave orders for the whale-boat to be slung out and manned.
As they approached nearer, it was evident that the drifting boat, which looked like a ship’s dinghy, contained something, but what, could not be made out.
When he had approached near enough, Stannistreet put the helm down and brought the schooner to, with her sails all shivering. He took his place in the bow of the whale-boat and Lestrange in the stern. The boat was lowered, the falls cast off, and the oars bent to the water.