“Keep a sharp look-out there, ahead!” he shouted to the man upon the look-out, “and if you see any thing in the shape of a boat, let me know it at once!”
“Ay, ay, sir,” responded the islander, as he peered with redoubled vigilance through the thick fog that covered sky and sea.
With another glance aloft, and a hasty look at the compass, Captain Lark then stepped to the companion-way, with the intention of descending and hastening the movements of his steward. But, he had not quite reached the middle of the staircase, when one of those prolonged and unearthly cries, such as only the wild men of the Pacific isles can utter, broke upon his ear and caused him to start.
“Boat, O-o-o!”
And before the shrill, vibrating voice had quite died away, the captain cleared the entrance of the companion-way with a bound, and ordering the man at the wheel to keep off a couple of points, rushed forward and sprung upon the knightheads.
Yes, there it was, sure enough—a boat lying just a little off the starboard bow, within ten fathoms of the ship, with her oars apeak and her crew looming up like grim phantoms in the fog!
“Ship ahoy!” shouted a deep, stentorian voice, which Lark immediately recognized as that of the hoary-headed Briggs; “isn’t that the Montpelier?”
“No,” promptly answered the mutineer, and, as he spoke, the bows of the ship fell rapidly off, “it’s the Neptune!”
“Blow me, but I know that voice!” retorted the mate. “It’s Tom Lark’s, and—and—ay, may I be swallowed by a shark if the craft isn’t the Montpelier! My eyes can’t deceive me with regard to a vessel I’ve once sailed in! Pull ahead, Mr. Spooner!”
“Ay, ay, sir,” retorted the second mate, and he ordered his crew to take to their oars.