For about ten minutes the chase continued,—both the pursued and the pursuer equally enveloped in vapour. They were less than two hundred yards apart, and virtually within view,—though not so near as to distinguish one another’s features. Each crew could make out the forms of the other; but only to tell that they were human beings clad in some sort of costume.
In this respect the Catamarans had the advantage. They knew who were their pursuers; and all about them.
The latter were still in a state of ignorance as to who were the four individuals so zealously endeavouring to avoid an interview with them. They could perceive that only two of them were full-grown men, and that the other two were of smaller size; but this gave them no clew for the identification of the fugitives.
Of course it did not occur to any of them to think over the rest of the Pandora’s people; and even if it had, there was no one who would have for a moment supposed that either the black cook, Snowball, or the little Portuguese pickaninny,—rarely seen upon the slaver’s deck,—could be among the survivors.
Such a conjecture never occurred to any of the ruffians upon the great raft; and therefore they were continuing the chase still ignorant of the identity of those who seemed so desirous of escaping them.
It was only after the fog had floated entirely away,—or grown so thin as to appear but transparent film,—that the pursuers identified those they were pursuing.
Then did their doubts cease and their conjectures come to a termination.
Of the four forms distinguishable upon the deck of the escaping craft, there was one that could not be mistaken.
That huge, rounded bust covered with its sable epidermis—for the negro had stripped to his work,—surmounted by a spherical occiput,—could belong to no living creature but the ex-cook of the Pandora. It was Snowball to a certainty!
A general shout proclaimed the recognition; and for some moments the air was rent with the voices of his ci-devant comrades calling upon the Coromantee to “come to an anchor.”