“A bit o’ a barque,” responds Blew. “And from what I can make out, close huggin’ the shore. I’ll be better able to tell when she draws out from that clump of cloud.”
Gomez, standing by, appears eager to get hold of the glass; but Blew seems unwilling to give it up. Still holding it at his eye, he says:
“See to that signal, mates! Spread the tarpaulin’ to its full streetch. Face it square, so’s to give ’em every chance of sightin’ it.”
Striker and Davis spring to the piece of tarred canvas; and grasping it, one at each corner, draw out the creases, and hold as directed.
All the while Blew stands with the telescope levelled, loath to relinquish it. But Gomez, grown importunate, insists on having his turn, and it is at length surrendered to him.
Blew, stepping aside, seems excited with some emotion he would conceal. Strong it must be, judging from its effects on the ex-man-o’-war’s man. On his face there is an expression difficult to describe—surprise amounting to amazement—joy subdued by anxiety. Soon, as having given up the glass, he pulls off his dreadnought, then divesting himself of his shirt—a scarlet flannel—he suspends it from the outer end of the cross-piece which supports the tarpauling; as he does so, saying to Striker and Davis:
“That’s a signal no ship ought to disregard, and won’t if manned by Christian men. She won’t, if she sees it. You two stay here, and keep the things well spread I’m goin’ below to say a word to them poor creeturs in the cave. Stand by the staff, and don’t let any o’ them haul it down.”
“Ay, ay!” answers Striker, without comprehending, and somewhat wondering at Blew’s words—under the circumstances strange. “All right, mate. Ye may depend on me an’ Bill.”
“I know it—I do,” rejoins the ex-man-o’-war’s man, again slipping the pilot-coat over his shirtless skin.
“Both o’ you be true to me, and ’fore long I may be able to show as Harry Blew an’t ungrateful.”