At that moment the major reappeared, toddling excitedly towards the stern.
“What on earth is the trouble?” asked Darrow. “Is there a pizen sarpint aboard?”
“Trouble!” stammered the major. “Who said there was any trouble? Don’t be an ass, sir! Don’t even look like an ass, sir! Damnation!”
And he trotted furiously into the engine-room.
Darrow climbed to the wheel-house once more, fished out a pair of binoculars, and fixed them on the inlet and the strip of Atlantic beyond.
“If the Dione isn’t in by three o’clock, Haltren will have his chance,” he murmured.
He was still inspecting the ocean and his watch alternately when Mrs. Haltren came on deck.
“Did you send me the canoe?” she asked, with cool unconcern.
“It’s for anybody,” he said, morosely. “Somebody ought to take a snap-shot of the scene of our disaster. If you don’t want the canoe, I’ll take it.”
She had her camera in her hand; it was possible he had noticed it, although he appeared to be very busy with his binoculars.