"There's a squall coming—there's a squall coming—ho, ho, he"—rumbled Toby.
"Where—where?"
"There—right out there."
"Poo, poo—that's the reef—the white breakers—eh, what?—why it moves, sure enough—it is sliding across the mouth of the bay—there, whew!"—as a blue light was burned in the offing, disclosing distinctly enough a small schooner standing in for the land, under easy sail, plunging heavily, and kicking up a curl of white foam on the black and rapidly increasing swell. Presently all was dark again, and a night-signal was made on board of her with lanterns.
"Waterwraith, as sure as can be!" said I; "but why does he bother with blue lights and signals? would it not be easier to send in a boat at once?"
"Too much sea on—too much sea on," quoth Tooraloo; "and no one would venture to thread the reefs and run in in a night like this; so he has no way of communicating but by signal."
After a little we noticed the small white wreath steal back again like a puff of vapour, and, crossing the bay, vanish beyond the bluff opposite the cocoanut trees.
"There—she has said her say, whatever that may have been, and has hove about again, sure enough."
We saw no more of her that night, and with the early dawn, we were once more under weigh, sliding gently out of the small haven.
I am sure I could not tell how the little beauty slipt along so speedily, for the collapsed sails were hanging wet and wrinkled from the spars, so light was the air; and as we began to draw out into the offing, and to feel the heave of the swell, the motion of the vessel made them speak and flutter, the water dashing down in showers, at every rumbling flap of the soaked and clouded canvass.