He handed the binoculars over to the master of the Sea Gypsy. Captain Sparhawk took a prolonged observation. When he, in turn, laid the glasses down his thin, mahogany-hued face bore a puzzled look.
“It’s queer, sir, but I don’t seem to be able to make out a living soul either.”
“A derelict, perhaps?”
“Possibly,” assented the captain, and no more was said as, with all eyes fixed on the strange schooner, the Sea Gypsy drew nearer. The boys could now make out every detail of the other craft. She was a trig-looking schooner, painted black, with a flush deck except for her after house and a small structure astern of the fore-mast. Her canvas was set but it flapped idly in the light breeze as she swung to and fro on the Pacific swells. No guiding hand could be seen at her wheel. Not a soul was visible on her deserted decks.
There is no more melancholy sight than a sea derelict, the aimless prey of winds and currents, drifting sometimes for years over the trackless wastes of the ocean. The boys felt something of this as all doubt as to human occupancy of the schooner vanished.
“Deserted, I reckon,” hazarded Jack. “Although her canvas appears perfect, her hull sound and——”
He broke off sharply. From the abandoned ship there had suddenly come a sound which, under the circumstances, was particularly depressing and even startling.
It was the measured tolling of a bell, like a funeral knell.