“Well, I’ll be ——! It’s a woman—a girl!”
Wilson was standing near our lowered ladder, looking through his glasses, and I hurried to him.
“Was the man right, Mr. Wilson?” I asked. “Is it a woman?”
“Yes sir,” said he and handed me his glasses.
I placed them to my eyes, swept the sea until I picked up the boat, and let the glasses rest on the passenger in the stern.
The seaman was right; it was a girl. She was probably twenty-one or two, and she was laughing. I had but a glimpse of her face, for as the men pushed off from the steamer she leaned forward and spoke to the officer in charge. The men stopped rowing. One of them let go his oar and crawled forward, and the girl took his place and swung the long oar in a fashion that brought cheer after cheer from the watching passengers and crew.
Chanler now emerged from his stateroom and took the glasses from my hand. For several seconds he studied the girl in the boat as she swung herself easily against the oar.
“Gad!” he whispered excitedly. “Gad!”
He looked around and saw the men gathered aft.
“Wilson,” he commanded, “drive that bunch below. Where’s Brack? On the bridge? All right.”