More fallen palms, tangled sea moss, jellyfish, a dead crocodile, a mile of sand, and then—Johnny rubbed his eyes. He opened them to look again.
“Our boat!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” Samatan said.
It was true. The boat was safe. Piled with seaweed and half-buried in sand, it remained where they had left it.
A brief examination redoubled the boy’s admiration for the aged native. The dugout had been chained to a stout, palm stump. Even the sail was lashed beneath the seat. Samatan had taken all these precautions before there was any sign of a storm. Wise old Samatan!
In awed silence Johnny helped to clear the sand and seaweed away.
“Now we go,” said Samatan, preparing to launch the boat.
If Johnny had admired Samatan’s sailing before, his admiration was doubled now. Up—up—up they glided, until they seemed ready to touch the stars, then down—down, far into the trough of a wave.
“Samatan.” Johnny spoke without thinking. “Why do you hate our steel ball?”
“Hate? Ball?” Samatan struggled for the right word. “Good man, professor. But must not steal natives’ gold!”