A near glance showed our hero that the occupant of the hammock was a white man garbed in nautical costume. There seemed to be no other person in the vicinity. Dave reached out and gave the hammock a rough swing.
Its occupant must have been a light sleeper. With wonderful suddenness and a sharp yell he bounded from his bed. He was a thin, short man, not weighing more than ninety pounds—so undersized, in fact, as he stood gaping at Dave in open-mouthed wonder, that the latter felt inclined to laugh at the grotesque figure he made.
“Why—where—when!” gasped out the man, and, almost overcome, he could utter no further coherent words.
“Do I happen to come here—and my friends? That beacon directed us; who are you?” asked our hero.
“Shipwrecked mariner,” was the reply, in a mournful tone.
“You are a castaway, then?”
“That’s it—good ship Flying Scud, Nantucket. Been here two months. What’s your craft?”
“The airship Comet,” replied our hero.
“W-what?” and the man looked astounded and then grinned. He rubbed his eyes to convince himself that he was not dreaming. Then he gazed at Dave in a hurt way, as if he felt that our hero was making fun of him.
“That’s true,” the young airman hastened to say. “Myself and my friends arrived here by accident only a few hours since. The power on our machine gave out, and we landed in the fog, not knowing where and we don’t know now.”