“What?” said Tom.
“I don’t believe there’s another vessel in the world like that.”
“Do you think that?” said Tom. “It’s the very idea that I had.”
“What! Not the Antelope?”
“Yes; the Antelope—her own very old self.”
“The Antelope!” cried Bailey. “You don’t mean it. If it is her, then it’s all explained. So he’s come arter you—has he? So that’s it. Wal, it’s the least he could do, arter gittin you into such a precious scrape.”
“O, it’s only a fancy. It mayn’t be her, after all.”
“O, but to my mind, it’s more likely to be her than any one else. No one but a friend, in search of a friend, would ever think of beatin up this here way along the coast of Anticosti. That’s my idee.” This assurance of Bailey’s tended to strengthen the idea which the boys had formed. After all, it was not impossible; nay, they thought it was not even improbable; for had they not been on the lookout for this very Antelope? and what vessel was more likely to come after them than this one? and why should she not come even to Anticosti?
“There she comes!” cried Bailey.
It was the fishing schooner. She was tacking. She wore round easily and gracefully, and headed straight towards them. They saw her draw nearer and nearer every moment, her bows rising, and tossing the water aside in showers of spray. They also stood boldly out now, for Bailey was at the helm, and was a far different sailor from Arthur or Tom. The little boat plunged soon into the rough water, and occasionally a torrent of foam dashed on board; but this was nothing, for all their eyes and all their thoughts were centred upon the approaching schooner.