The Antelope drew steadily nearer, and all on board watched with indescribable eagerness the strange ship. Now they could see her disordered rigging, her yards bare of sails, her open hatchway. They could see bedding lying on the quarter-deck, and the open skylight. All these things indicated life on board; yet of that life there was no other sign. Where was the captain? Where were the crew? Where was the cook, who kept up such a roaring fire? It was all a puzzle. Above all. where were Bruce and Bart? Who could tell?
Nearer and nearer.
Every moment brought them closer, but disclosed no living being.
Solomon crept up slowly to Arthur, and gently touched his arm.
Arthur started, and turned.
“Hallo, Solomon! what’s the matter with you?”
“Mas’r Atta, I donno bout dis yer craft,” said Solomon, in a tremulous voice, with his eyes rolling wildly.
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Arthur, in surprise.
“Donno; dar’s somethin drefful curous bout dis yer craft,—beats all eber I see,—floatin under water; full ub water, an not sinkin; fire a burnin like de old boy in de cook’s galley, an not a livin man aboard. I don’t like it. Tell you what, now, I don’t like it.”
“Pooh! nonsense,” said Arthur. “Don’t be absurd, Solomon. You’ll take your turn in that cook’s galley, perhaps, before sundown, and make acquaintance with the cook of the ship.”