“I’ll drop down into the motor room and use the passageway through.”
Dawson was gone ten minutes. When he returned he shook his head, then stood looking out over the sea. Excepting the “Restless” and the drab seventy-footer there was no craft in sight. Not so much as a lighthouse shed its beams over the ocean at this point of the coast.
“Say, it’s weird, isn’t it?” muttered Joe Dawson. “We can’t see a thing but ourselves, yet down in the cabin I’ve just been chatting with the Savannah boat, the New Orleans boat, two Boston fruit steamers, the southbound Havana liner and a British warship. Look out there. Where are they? Yet all are within reach of my electric wave!”
“There are no longer any pathless roads of the sea—not since the wireless came in,” declared 155 Tom Halstead. “If there were enough vessels to relay us we could talk direct with London now. The next thing will be a telephone in every stateroom, with a wireless central on the saloon deck or the spar deck. But gracious! We’ve been forgetting all about our poor prisoner in the starboard stateroom. He must have a royal case of hunger by now. Tell Hank to take him in some food and to feed the poor fellow, since he can’t use his own hands.”
Later time began to drag by. There were few signs of life aboard the seventy-footer. Sending Joe and Hepton down to the motor room berths as watch below, Tom kept Hank on deck with him. Bye-and-bye Joe and Hepton took their trick on deck, while Halstead and Hank Butts went below for some sleep. Through most of the night Powell Seaton remained hard at work over his writing, often pausing to read and make some corrections.
Morning found the two boats still at anchor. With sunrise came a stiffer wind that rocked the “Restless” a good deal.
“Now, look out for one of the sudden September gales,” warned Captain Tom Halstead, as, after the second short sleep of the night, he came up on deck, yawning and stretching. He stepped over to read the barometer, then turned quickly to Joe. 156
“Looks like something’s going to happen, doesn’t it?” queried Dawson.
“Yes; there’s a disturbance heading this way,” admitted Tom, looking around at the sky. “Yet it may be hours, or a day, off yet. If we were going under canvas, though, I’d shorten it.”
“The captain of the Drab evidently believes in being prepared,” hinted Joe, nodding in the direction of the other craft. Two men were now visible on the deck of the seventy-footer. They were taking up anchor, though not doing it with either speed or stealth.