Moving back to the bunks, Sandy and Jerry knelt to look through the small windows above them. On both sides of the sloop, there was nothing to see but water—not so much as a buoy or another boat in sight. Far off to the starboard side, they made out a low smudge that was the shore.
“We must be almost there!” Sandy said.
“Do you think there’s any use trying the forward hatch?” asked Jerry. “Or do you suppose that they have that one locked tight, too?”
“I don’t know if it matters much one way or the other,” Sandy sighed. “Even if it is open, I wouldn’t care to stick my head out—not with Turk sitting back there with his pistol ready! I think I’ve had enough of rushing into pistols for one day!” Putting his hand to his head, he felt the lump that was forming above his right ear.
Moving with the most extreme caution, so as to attract no attention from their guards, they started to explore the cabin for whatever possibilities it had to offer. Coming to the two tiny forward portholes, barely large enough to put a hand through, Sandy paused to take a look forward.
Before their bow, perhaps fifty yards away, was a boat sailing calmly along as if the whole world were on a holiday. For one short instant, Sandy thought that this might be their chance—perhaps a signal with the flare gun might bring aid from the passing sailor! But his hopes were shattered in no time as he realized that the sloop sailing ahead was his own, sailed by Jones who was leading the way to the freighter that waited, like doom, not far off.
Even in his hopelessness, Sandy could not help pausing to admire his boat, graceful and trim, making good time beating into a steady breeze. He thought for a moment of the preceding day when he had learned to take the tiller and had first felt the happy pride of ownership and accomplishment that comes to every boat owner. What a change in fortunes this new day had brought! Now his boat was no longer his and, instead of carrying him to pleasure, was leading him to what looked like certain disaster!
As he watched, his boat suddenly put about on a new tack. He saw Jones skillfully handling both the tiller and the sheets. The jib was swiftly brought over to fill and, together with the mainsail, was trimmed and drawing in no time. Whatever else you could say about Jones, Sandy thought, the man sure knew how to handle a boat!
The new tack set by Jones was followed by their sailor-guards. With a creak of tackle and rigging and a shifting of weight to the opposite side, the little sloop came about. Still at his lookout post at the forward port, Sandy saw the head of the boat swing about. As it did so, he caught sight of their destination.
“Jerry! Look!” he whispered, motioning his friend to join him at the other porthole. There, high in the water, perhaps a mile away, was the dark shape of the freighter. Wisps of gray-white smoke curled from its stack and drifted off in the breeze. It was an ordinary-looking freight cargo ship, such as you would see in any port of the world. It had a black hull, a white deckhouse and a black stack marked with green stripes. All perfectly ordinary, perhaps, but to Sandy and Jerry it looked sinister and piratical. They stared at it for a few minutes, trying to judge their rate of progress from the lessening distance between themselves and the black-hulled ship. Then Sandy tore himself away from the porthole and grabbed Jerry’s arm.