The monotony of the night march to the fishery was enlivened by the unexpected apparition of a boat. There was just enough of moonlight to render it dimly visible a few hundred yards from the shore.
“Indians!” exclaimed Ladoc, breaking silence for the first time since they set out.
“The stroke is too steady and regular for Indians,” said Jack. “Boat ahoy!”
“Shore ahoy!” came back at once in the ringing tones of a seaman’s voice.
“Pull in; there’s plenty of water!” shouted Jack.
“Ay, ay,” was the response. In a few seconds the boat’s keel grated on the sand, and an active sailor jumped ashore. There were five other men in the boat.
“Where have you dropped from?” enquired Jack. “Well, the last place we dropped from,” answered the seaman, “was the port quarter davits of the good ship Ontario, Captain Jones, from Liverpool to Quebec, with a general cargo; that was last night, and ten minutes afterwards, the Ontario dropped to the bottom of the sea.”
“Wrecked!” exclaimed Jack.
“Just so. Leastwise, sprung a leak and gone to the bottom.”
“No hands lost, I hope?”