CHAPTER XXIII.
MEETING AN OLD FRIEND.
Morning broke on a comparatively smooth sea, and two utterly exhausted, sunken-cheeked lads, weak from exposure and lack of nourishment.
“This thing has got to end one way or another before long,” declared Bill, his voice coming in a sort of croak from his parched throat.
“Yes, I’m afraid we can’t stick it out much longer, Bill,” assented Jack languidly.
“I’m beginning to see things,” muttered Bill; “black objects dancing about in the sun. Over there on the horizon, for instance, I can see a dark cloud that looks like a tower. I know it isn’t there, of course, but——”
“But, Bill, by hookey, it is!” cried Jack.
“What, are you going crazy, too?”
“That’s not a tower, but a steamer’s smoke, Bill,” declared Jack, after prolonged scrutiny. In a few minutes Bill became convinced that his chum was right.
“But will she pass near enough to see us?”
It was a question upon which much, indeed, their very existence, might depend.