“Look yonder there, Jack. Don’t you see some object?”
“I do, floating off to the eastward.”
“What can it be?”
“Don’t know. Looks as if it might be a boat.”
“I’ll get the glasses. We’ll soon see.”
Tom dived below and reappeared with the binoculars. A short scrutiny convinced them that their eyes had not played them false. The object on the horizon was a boat, a small craft like a rowing skiff—at least, that was as well as they could make out.
“Shall I tell Mr. Dancer?”
The question came from Tom.
“Yes; do so at once. It may be some shipwrecked sailor adrift. At any rate, we ought to look into it.”
Both Mr. Dancer and Mr. Chadwick agreed with this. For the second time in forty-eight hours the White Shark was diverted from her course, and headed toward the drifting object. As they drew closer it became evident enough, however, that the boat was empty, or at least if it had an occupant that he was past sitting up.