Cynthia's arms were round the old man's neck.
"Dear Uncle Tony! I do appreciate it. I do! I do! I didn't know you were doing it for me. I thought——"
"And I thought they would leave, and we could perhaps get her afloat again. Is there anything left of her, Jones? I suspect we've seen the last of the old Yankee Blade." He turned and walked down the hill. I stooped and picked up the glass and handed it to Cynthia.
She turned it on the spot where the Yankee had gone on the rocks. A dull, thick smoke overhung the place. On the hither side we could see a mass of wreckage. Some large splinters of wood were floating in the water. We heard repeated shots, but the other vessels were obscured from view by the smoke which they themselves had made, as well as that which enveloped the wreck of the Yankee.
"I think there's a little of her left, Uncle Tony," said Cynthia. "She seems to stand up on the rock, part of her. Oh, if they could only see us! We haven't anything to signal with, not even an apron."
She seized the sunbonnet from her head and waved it wildly in the air. "They must see us!" she said. "They must!" But her action was of no avail. Our sight could not penetrate the smoke, and the vessels, even if their crews could have seen us, were too busy to notice us. Cynthia waved until her arm dropped tired at her side.
"We'll have to give it up, I suppose," she said. "Good-bye, old Yankee Blade, good-bye!" And together we descended the hill. Captain Schuyler had turned his back on the ocean and was talking with the Cook.
"No use crying over spilt milk," I heard him say. The Cook regarded him as surlily as he dared. The pudding lay heavy in his interior, mental and physical.
"We'd better get some food ready and then put out the fire. No knowing who's lurking round."
"Why, Uncle Tony, isn't Haïti a friendly country?"