Some of the sailors were singing a jaunty rollicking sea ditty. Dave and Bob paced the after-deck full of their plans for the prospective voyage to begin on the morrow.
"This is certainly life as she is on the ocean wave," declared Bob enthusiastically.
"I love the smell of the brine, Bob," said Dave. "I was born breathing it, and now the seafaring life seems to be a regular business proposition with me."
"Good business, if you recover all that money," observed Bob.
"Look there, Bob," spoke Dave suddenly.
His companion turned. Facing the coast end of the creek a gruesome-looking craft with black funnels, and odd and awkward of shape, was hovering about the mouth of the little inlet.
"Hello," exclaimed Bob, "that's the government ironclad. What's she doing here?"
"Yes," nodded Dave, taking up a telescope and looking through it, "that's the Chili, the governor's special warship, sure. They say she's a poor apology of a craft. Bought her second-hand from some English shipyard. They are putting off a yawl."
"Going to visit us?" inquired Bob.
"It looks that way."