“That’s right. Must look lonesome to you Easterners.”
“It certainly does,” agreed Mr. Dacre. “Boys,” he went on, looking anxiously landward, “I don’t see a sign of a shore boat yet.”
At this point of the conversation the captain pulled his whistle cord, and the ugly, old side-wheeler’s siren emitted a sonorous blast.
Poking his head out of the pilot house window, he shouted down at Mr. Dacre and the boys:
“I’m a goin’ ter lay off here for ten minutes. If no shore boat shows up by that time, on we go to Seattle.”
“Very well,” responded Mr. Dacre, hiding his vexation as best he could. “We must—but,” he broke off abruptly, as from round the point there suddenly danced a small sloop. “I guess that’s the boat now, captain!” he hailed up.
“Hope so, anyhow,” ejaculated Tom, while the captain merely gave a grunt. He was annoyed at having to slow up his steamer. As the engine room bell jingled, the clumsy old side wheels beat the water less rapidly. Presently the old tub lay rolling in the trough of the sea almost motionless. On came the boat under a press of canvas. She heeled over smartly. In her stern was an upright figure; the lower part of his face was covered with a big, brown beard. As he saw the party, he waved a blue-shirted arm.
“That’s Colton Chillingworth!” exclaimed Mr. Dacre. “I haven’t seen him for ten years, but I’d know that big outline of a man any place.”
The deck hands were now all ready with the travelers’ steamer trunks. The boys had their suit cases, gun bags, and fishing rods in their hands.
“How on earth are we ever going to board that boat?” wondered Jack, rather apprehensively, as the tiny craft came dancing along like a light-footed terpsichorean going through the mazes of a quadrille.