After that it did not take the boys long to pick out a nook where they could be sheltered to a great extent from the blow. And here they anchored, very thankful because of their safe arrival near Miami, after making such a record run outside, where their boats looked like tiny chips on the wide, heaving sea.
All of them were tired, and welcomed the coming of night, when they could partake of supper, and perhaps gather around a camp-fire ashore.
Jack had seen that there were quite a number of other boats of all kinds scattered around the bay. Some were anchored off cottages, while others scudded for the home port before the storm increased to violent proportions. Although the time for West India hurricanes was long since past, any blow along the coast may mean peril to small craft, and they considered it safer to get into shelter before the worst came.
Jack was doing some little work aboard the Tramp when a boat scraped alongside.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, as George climbed aboard; “what brings you over here?”
“Let me have your glasses, won’t you, Jack?” asked the other, mysteriously.
“That sounds mighty like you thought you had made some discovery, George. Say, three to one it’s about that power boat that is a ringer for the Tramp?”
“Go up head, Jack, because you’ve guessed it the first clat out of the box. Good for you! Now I’ll satisfy my mind about one thing, and find out whether they are watching us every time we happen to run together.”
“So that’s the boat anchored away over yonder, is it?” Jack mused. “For all we know it may belong to the Biscayne Bay Yacht Club, and be at home right now.”
“Huh! just as I thought,” grunted George.