"We're drifting inshore," he said. "As soon as I get four fathoms we'll steam out. Try a cast of the lead."
Walthew swung the plummet and they heard it strike the sea.
"Half a fathom to the good," he called as he coiled up the wet line. Then he stopped, looking toward the land. "What's that?" he said. "Yonder, abreast of the mast?"
A twinkling light appeared in the mist and grew brighter.
"A fire, I think," Grahame answered quietly. "Still, one's not enough."
A second light began to glimmer, and soon another farther on.
Macallister chuckled.
"Ye're a navigator. Our friends are ready. I've seen many a worse landfall made by highly-trained gentlemen with a big mail company's buttons."
"A lucky shot; but you had better stand by below. Start her easy."
He blew three blasts on the whistle, and the fires went out while the Enchantress moved slowly shoreward through the gloom. Miguel held the wheel and Grahame stood near by, watching the half-breed who swung the lead. Presently another light twinkled, and, listening hard, Grahame heard the splash of paddles. Stopping the engines, he waited until a low, gray object crept out of the mist and slid toward the steamer's side. Ropes were thrown and when the canoe was made fast the first of the men who came up ceremoniously saluted Grahame.