A merry peal of laughter came ringing from somewhere about the ship.
At this juncture, a young man in a natty uniform came hastening up. He bore a slip of yellow paper which he respectfully handed to the Wall Street magnate.
"Ah, Collins,—Mr. Hargreaves, this is our wireless operator."
The ensign nodded while Mr. Grant gazed over the message.
"So you picked her up, eh, Collins?" he said, handing the message he had just perused over to the ensign.
"Yes, sir. It appears that after missing the derelict in the fog the Seneca cruised in circles looking for her. She is now within ten miles of us."
"So I see by this message," struck in the ensign; "we are fortunate not to have drifted further."
"What do you wish to do?" inquired Mr. Grant.
"Naturally, to be transferred to my own ship, if you will be so kind."
Mr. Grant nodded.