“Found de knife dere,” said Matt, pointing to the midst of the shells, and speaking in a low earnest voice, as if the subject were a solemn one.
“Oh!” exclaimed Sally, under her breath.
“An’ look here,” said Matt, leading the girl to a sandy spot close by. They both stood transfixed and silent, for there were strange foot-prints on the sand.
They could not be mistaken. Sally and Matt knew every foot and every shoe, white or black, in Pitcairn. The marks before them had been made by unknown shoes.
Just in proportion as youth is more susceptible of astonishment than age, so was the surprise of those little ones immeasurably greater than that of Robinson Crusoe in similar circumstances. With awestruck faces they traced the foot-prints down to the water’s edge. Then, for the first time, it struck Matt that he had forgotten something.
“Oh, me forget de sip—de sip!” he cried, and pointed out to sea.
Sally raised her eyes and uttered an exclamation of fresh astonishment, as well she might, for there, like a seagull on the blue wave, was a ship under full sail. It was far-off, nearly on the horizon, but quite distinct, and large enough to be recognised.
Of course the gazers were spellbound again. It was the first real ship they had ever seen, but they easily recognised it, being familiar with man’s floating prisons from the frequent descriptions given to them by John Adams, and especially from a drawing made by him, years ago, on the back of an old letter, representing a full-rigged man-of-war. This masterpiece of fine art had been nailed up on the walls of John Adams’s hut, and had been fully expounded to each child in succession, as soon after its birth as was consistent with common-sense—sometimes sooner.
Suddenly Otaheitan Sally recovered herself.
“Come, Matt, we must run home an’ tell what we’ve seen.”