Regie stared at the man with a look that meant plainly, “I don't believe a word of it,” and the keeper laughed outright. Sister Julia, sitting at the top of the little flight of stairs just outside the lantern, watched him with an amused smile on her face; and Nan, who was listening now, was interested enough to wish that she had heard it all.
“You think that I am telling you a yarn, don't you, youngster?” said the keeper to Regie, “but 'pon honour it is every word true. If you don't believe it, I'll show you the five little wrecks lying in a row on a bench in the yard, just as I picked 'em up this morning.”
“Picked 'em up!” said Regie, scornfully.
“Yes, sir, picked 'em up. The reason you don't understand me is because you spell sailor with an “o,” but in this case you must spell it with an “e”—sailers, you see—which is only another name for birds, you know.”
It was Regie's turn to laugh now. “You fooled me pretty well,” he said; but Nan looked more ready to cry.
“Do you mean,” said she, “that five little birds flew against this lantern last night, and killed themselves?”
“Five last night, and six the night before,” said the man, as though the truth must be told, no matter how unpleasant.
“Ship ahoy!” shouted Captain Murray from the tower balcony, where he had been on watch for the last half hour. All knew what that meant, and Sister Julia and Nan and Harry hurried down the little flight that led from the lantern to the balcony, and the keeper quickly caught Regie in his arms again.
“Where is she?” cried Regie, impatiently, as though he could hardly wait for an answer.
“You can see her with the naked eye,” replied the captain, “away off there in a direct line from the Hook. I knew her build and rig the moment she came in sight; but she's flying a queer sort of flag,” putting his glass to his eye.