"I don't know," grumbled Dunn, "but when in doubt, take a drink—I'll go and get one."
While he was below, a dingy-looking vessel came slowly in the northwest channel. She was a heavily built sloop, and upon her deck lounged a rather numerous crew. They were picturesque, half-clothed in nondescript rags, their bare arms and shoulders seeming impervious to the rays of the torrid sunshine, for along the Florida reef, even in winter, the sun is burning.
The craft dropped anchor about twenty fathoms astern of the yacht, and when Dunn came from below, bringing with him an odour of gin and bitters, the crew of the sloop regarded him silently.
"Hello, a wrecker!" exclaimed Dunn.
His sailing-master had come to the taffrail and was gazing at the stranger, while Mrs. Dunn, careless of nautical neighbours, read her magazine.
"Yes, seems like one of the wreckers," said Captain Smart; "an ugly-looking crew, for a fact. They say these spongers divide their time between wrecking and smuggling. Not that either's bad if indulged in moderately, but they are apt to get loose after awhile and do queer things."
"There ought to be plenty of good in a wrecker, if he plied his trade right—ought to save lives and property," said Dunn. "Let's have a look through the glass."
The men of the wrecking-sloop gazed back insolently at the yachtsman, and a giant black man among them rose up, placed his fingers in line, and applied the thumb of one hand to his big, flat nose, wiggling his huge digits in derision.
"That fellow is a corker," said Dunn, watching the wrecker good-humouredly.