“Have you ever seen the town of Tres Arbores?” queried Halstead, something like three-quarters of an hour later.
“Never,” replied Ida Silsbee.
“Unless my chart lies, that’s Tres Arbores off the starboard bow,” Halstead continued.
“Is that where Mr. Tremaine wants you to dock?”
“It’s the present end of the voyage. We can’t dock, though, as there is no dock there. We’ll have to anchor and row ashore to the little landing stage.”
Joe, five minutes later, routed Ham up from below. That young colored man came up rubbing his eyes, but he looked mightily pleased when he caught sight of the nearby shore.
“Ah reckon ole Satan didn’ ride dat gale all de way,” he grinned. “We’se done reach poht all right.”
Joe, with the sounding lead, kept track of the depths here. Tom ran the “Restless” in to within a quarter of a mile of the landing stage, then shut off speed, drifting under decreasing headway for some distance ere he gave the word for Joe and Ham to heave the anchor.
Then, all at once, the whistle shrilled out, in a succession of long blasts.
“What’s that for?” asked Miss Silsbee, curiously, when the din had stopped.