“No, not a sign,” rejoined Jack, understanding without further words just what Tom meant.
“But you look sort of—sort of——”
“Cheered up?”
“Yes, that’s it. What makes you so?”
By way of rejoinder Jack ordered Tom to “look there,” pointing off over the port bow of the dancing cockleshell. Tom followed the direction of Jack’s finger with his eyes. He saw, as the boat rose on the crest of a wave, a small patch that appeared to be a cloud of a delicate purple hue.
“Well, what of that?” he inquired, not seeing much interest in a cloud.
“That’s land over yonder; I’m sure of it,” declared Jack.
“What sort of land?” Tom appeared skeptical.
“Why, an island, of course. One of the Bahamas, I imagine. We’re about in that latitude.”
“Never mind the island a minute; just where are we, and where’s the White Shark?”