“Coming back!” repeated the other slowly. “We are not always sure of that. Sometimes we leave the land, the light, behind us forever.”
“Oh, not forever!” said Dan. “We would have to strike light and land somewhere unless we drowned.”
“We don’t drown,” continued the stranger. “We do worse: we drift,—drift in darkness and night.”
Dan stared. His companion had taken his cigar from his lips and was letting its glow die into ashes.
“Folks do drown sometimes,” said Dan. “I tell you if you go round the bottom of this boat you’d see how we could drown mighty easily. Just a wheel or crank or a valve a mite wrong,—whewy! we’d all be done for. But they don’t go wrong; that’s the wonder of it, isn’t it?” said Dan, cheerfully. “If everybody kept steady and straight as a steam-engine, this would be a mighty good world.”
“No doubt it would,” was the reply. “Are you not rather young to be facing it alone?”
“Oh, I’m not alone!” said Dan, hastily. “I’m off with a lot of other fellows for the seashore. We are college boys from Saint Andrew’s.”
“Saint Andrew’s?” The stranger started so violently that the dying cigar dropped from his hold. “Saint Andrew’s College, you say, boy! Not Saint Andrew’s in—”
But a clear young voice broke in upon the excited question.
“Dan Dolan! Where are you, Dan? Oh, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”