Just then came another call from Nat. The Nomad was about half an hour away from the island and making good time despite the big seas.
“Will be home to dinner,” flashed Nat, and Joe flashed back “M-M-M,” which, in telegrapher’s language, signifies “laughter.”
The Nomad came into the cove on schedule time. Her white sides were wet and glistening with spray, and Nat and Nate Spencer in their oilskins looked every inch the young seamen when they came ashore in the dinghy, the same one, by-the-way, that had been recovered from Whale Creek.
Over the meal that followed their arrival, Joe told his story amid frequent interruptions. When he came to the narrative of young Dolliver and the mysterious man who was dwelling in the elder Dolliver’s ranch house, Nat agreed with him that in all probability they had, by an extraordinary coincidence, crossed Minory’s trail once more. Of course it might be a mistaken supposition, but Nat agreed with Joe that it was at least worth while investigating.
“I’ll take a stroll around after dinner and look at the weather,” said Nat. “If it isn’t too rough we can run over in the Nomad, but after all, possibly it would be just as effective to call up Ding-dong and let him communicate with the authorities.”
While Joe and Nate washed dishes and otherwise set things to rights, Nat started out on his tramp. It was still raining hard and blowing harder, with a nasty, choppy gray sea running.
“Pretty dusty,” commented Nate, looking out of the window on the dreary seascape.
But within the shanty all was snug and warm and cheerful, and when Nat returned in half an hour or so, he found a picture of comfort awaiting him. He divested himself of his wet oilskins and heavy boots before he spoke, and then he had some remarkable news to impart.
“There’s a small schooner of not more than thirty-five or forty tons anchored off the southerly end of the island,” he said.
Nate looked up instantly. It was clear that to his seaman’s mind the news was puzzling.