“You’re right, boy,” growled Hunt. If it had been light Tom would have seen that a curiously anxious look crept over his companion’s face. The coming of a steamer meant to Zeb Hunt that he would be placed in irons and taken back to the United States to work out the penalty for his crimes. But he said nothing, and presently the entire boatload was watching the oncoming steamer.
As she drew closer Tom made out that she was a small white vessel like a yacht. Her lights glowed brightly, both from her portholes and on deck. Evidently her company was up and about. Perhaps they had sighted the fire on the island, which was casting a blood-red glare on sea and sky.
“Ship ahoy!” hailed Tom suddenly as the vessel drew closer.
“Ahoy yourself!” came an amazed voice from the foredeck of the vessel, “who the dickens are you?”
“A crew of castaways!” rejoined Tom. “Throw us a line, will you?”
But now another voice struck in from the strange vessel’s deck:
“Tom! Oh, Tom!”
“Jack!” cried the amazed lad, recognizing his brother’s voice.
“Hooray, we’ve found them!” came another voice, that of Sam Hartley. “Hooray, my lads! Three cheers!”
They were given with a will while the small boat was rowed alongside the larger vessel. A gangway was lowered and a perfect bombardment of questions began to rain down. It was impossible to answer them all, but in the babel the rancher recognized the voice of his wife.