Bill laughed. “You’re on, sir,—if you’ll take off these cockpit covers, I’ll go below for the emergency rations!”
“Make it snappy, then. I’m hungry enough to eat a horse. Or fat pork swimming in its own grease, for that matter!”
By the time Mr. Bolton had the tarpaulins stowed away. Bill produced sandwiches and coffee hot from the thermos bottle.
“New life and no mistake,” Mr. Bolton remarked, munching contentedly. “What do you think of our chances now that you’re able to satisfy the inner man, Bill?”
“Not very good, sir. The tide is carrying us toward the point, but this wind is causing us to drift backward onto the breakers at a rate of at least three feet to the tide’s one.”
“I don’t see any signs of life on the island,” observed his father.
“No, if anybody lives on that key, the house is behind the cliffs. I’ve been watching for a sign of smoke, but haven’t sighted anything so far. Queer formation, those cliffs, for this part of the world. Most of the islands are so low and flat they’re covered with water at high tide.”
They finished their breakfast in a leisurely manner, and stowed away the remainder of the food.
“I guess we aren’t going to make the point,” said Bill when their tailplane lay not more than a quarter of a mile off the breakers. “I’ve got another idea, though. Stupid of me not to have thought of it before. It’s a ticklish job, but if I don’t swamp her, we ought to get round that promontory.”
“Anything is better than this inaction. What’s the good word?”