He jumped down as Dick changed his course, and they passed a spit of surf-washed sand, rounded the last clump of trees, and opened up the harbor mouth. The sunshine fell upon a glaring white and yellow town, and oily water glittered between the wharf and the dark hulls of anchored vessels, but Dick suddenly set his lips. He knew the Danish boat, and she was not there.
“She’s gone,” said Jake with a hint of relief in his voice. “That was her smoke on the skyline.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
ROUGH WATER
As soon as they entered port, Dick and Jake went to the office of a Spanish shipbroker, who offered them his polite sympathy.
“We had very little cargo here, and when he heard there was some dyewood at San Ignacio the captain steamed off again,” he explained.
“What sort of a port is San Ignacio, and how far is it?” Dick asked.
“It is an aldea on the shore of a lagoon, with a wharf that small boats can reach, about forty miles from here.”