It was night, a night of storm. The wind had come sweeping in from the sea, bringing rain and rolling waves. It was not a typhoon, but a straight-on nor’wester of great violence. By the aid of an improvised capstan, the two boys had dragged the “Dust Eater” high up on the beach, and, with ropes and wooden stakes had guyed her there.
The storm was now at its height. The wind set the dark clumps of palms swishing and moaning in a dismal fashion. Great sheets of rain beat against Johnny’s face as, wrapped to the chin in a slicker, he went from the cabin close to the cliff where they had taken refuge, down to the beach, to make sure that the guys to the plane were holding firm.
When he had assured himself that all was well, he paused for a moment to gaze out to sea. He was half afraid that the two native boats had not reached their harbor before the storm broke.
“Keeping them off this island is one thing, driving them into the teeth of a storm another; wouldn’t want to be responsible for their deaths,” he mumbled. Then he started.
“What’s that? A light?”
There had come a lull in the storm. The rain had ceased. It seemed to him that, as he strained his eyes to gaze seaward, he made out a light. Now appearing, now disappearing, it seemed to be upon some craft bobbing up and down with the waves that were rolling high.
“Can’t be the natives. No canoe could ride this storm. It might be—” This second thought sent him hurrying across the beach toward the cabin. His companions were asleep, but this was important; he would waken them.
“They’re taking an awful risk,” he explained to Pant and the Professor, a few moments later, as they stood upon the brow of the cliff watching the now unmistakable light of a ship out to sea. “They’re too close in now for safety. Shoals out there, and it seems to me they’re coming closer.”
“Lost their bearings,” suggested Pant.
“Think a beacon fire would help?” asked the Professor.