Forty fathoms rocky bottom, was the result. Then, as they came slowly up, the depth shoaled.
“Get ready with the anchor,” cried Hank. He brought the Heart along till they were almost abreast of the wreck, and at a safe distance, then, in thirty fathoms, the anchor was dropped and the Heart slowly swung to her moorings.
The dinghy was lowered and Hank and George got in.
Yes, it was the Wear Jack right enough, lying there like a stricken thing, the gentle list bringing her starboard rail to within a few feet of the blue lapping swell. Gaffs brought down on the booms, booms unsupported by the topping lifts, boat gone, she made a picture of desolation and abandonment unforgettable, seen there against the grim gray background of the rock.
“Well, he’s made a masterpiece of it,” said Hank as they tied on and scrambled on board. “He sure has.”
They were turning aft along the slanting deck when up through the cabin hatch came the head and shoulders of a man, a man rubbing sleep from his eyes. It was Candon.
CHAPTER XXXVI
“CANDON”
CANDON—deserted by the Chinks just as he had deserted his companions on the beach.