They coasted up the west side of the atoll, making short tacks in to the surf-pounded coral rock and out again. From the masthead, across the palm-fringe, a Kanaka announced the lagoon and a small island in the middle.
“I know what you're thinking,” Grief said to his mate.
Snow, who had been muttering and shaking his head, looked up with quick and challenging incredulity.
“You're thinking the entrance will be on the northwest.” Grief went on, as if reciting.
“Two cable lengths wide, marked on the north by three separated cocoanuts, and on the south by pandanus trees. Eight miles in diameter, a perfect circle, with an island in the dead centre.”
“I was thinking that,” Snow acknowledged.
“And there's the entrance opening up just where it ought to be——”
“And the three palms,” Snow almost whispered, “and the pandanus trees. If there's a windmill on the island, it's it—Swithin Hall's island. But it can't be. Everybody's been looking for it for the last ten years.”
“Hall played you a dirty trick once, didn't he?” Grief queried.
Snow nodded. “That's why I'm working for you. He broke me flat. It was downright robbery. I bought the wreck of the Cascade, down in Sydney, out of a first instalment of a legacy from home.”