Carlin had come on deck. Rantan had said not a word about the broken open cupboard or the whiskey; the ship was cleared of drink and that was enough for him; when he came on deck a few minutes after the other, he found the beachcomber leaning on the after rail.
A shark was hanging in the wake of the schooner. A deep-sea ship does not sail alone. She gives company and shelter to all sorts of fish from the remora that hangs on for a whole voyage, to the bonito that follows her maybe for a week. In front of the shark, moving and glittering like spoon bait, a pilot fish showed in flashes of blue and gold.
Carlin turned from contemplation of these things to find Rantan at his side.
On going below for a wash after his night on deck, Carlin had found the other at breakfast. Neither man had spoken of the events of the night before, nor did they now.
“Following us steady, isn’t he?” said Carlin, turning again to contemplate the monster in the wake—“don’t seem to be swimming either and he’s going all of eight knots. What’s he after, following us like that?”
“Haven’t you ever seen a shark before?” asked Rantan.
“Yes, and I’ve never seen good of them following a ship,” replied Carlin, “and I’m not set on seeing them, ’specially now.”
“Why now?” asked the mate.
But Carlin shied from the subject that was in both their minds.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said he, “I was thinking of the traverse in front of us.... Say, now we’re set and sailing for it, are you sure of hitting that island?”