“Has schooner Southern Cross passed outwards?”
In a few minutes answer came—“Southern Cross anchored in Watson’s Bay, awaiting change in wind.”
* * * * *
Half-an-hour later Hobbs, on board the police steam launch, was proceeding rapidly down the harbour.
Would they never get there? The launch seemed to him to crawl. Past Cremorne, past Bradley’s Head, past the islands that dotted the blue lake with their olive-green foliage and ruddy sandstone rocks, past Rose Bay with its long-stretched fringe of silver sand, and then out into full view of Watson’s Bay, nestled in snug security under the mighty cliffs of South Head.
Yes? The Southern Cross was still at anchor, resting like a lifeless thing upon the water. A pair of anxious eyes watched the approach of the launch from its deck. And, as the little steamer curved round and drew alongside, and a policeman from its bows hastily climbed on to the deck of the schooner, a loud splash was heard on the further side of the boat.
Hobbs was just in time to see the man he wanted disappear with a dive off the bulwarks. Without a moment’s hesitation he doffed his coat and helmet, and with a rush and a spring he too was in the water.
The constable quickly came to the surface, but the watchers on the schooner could see no sign of Huey Gosper. Twenty pair of eyes at least scanned the surface of the sea in every direction, but no re-appearance was visible. Hobbs vainly called for directions; a lowered boat vainly rowed to and fro. No sign of the man but his floating hat was to be found.
That he had dived a quarter of a mile to the shore and climbed up the rocks unperceived was hardly credible.
Hobbs felt sure he was not far off. Perhaps in diving he had struck a rock and got stunned. Even then he should have floated.