Before the astonished missionaries could say a word the skipper started for his glasses, and, seizing them, he looked steadily at a faint trail of smoke which rose above the horizon directly in the vessel’s wake.
“Now, by Gorry! That’s strange,” he muttered. “There’s no steamer bound out to-day, and yet that fellow seems to be standing right after us.”
“Mr. Gantline!” he called, as he turned towards where the mate stood. “Go aloft with the glass and see if you can make out that fellow astern of us.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” answered Gantline. And he took the skipper’s glass and made his way leisurely up the main-ratlines.
From the lower top he could see nothing but a black funnel and masts without yards, so he went higher. On reaching the cross-trees he looked forward, and there, lying prone on their stomachs, were the two hiding men. Their eyes were straining at the vessel astern, and even if Gantline had not already made out who she was, one look at those faces would have told him. He came on deck and returned the skipper’s glasses without a word, and then started forward, but Zachary Green stopped him.
“Could you make her out?” he asked.
“Well, there isn’t much of her rising yet, but I suppose she’s the Blanco Encalada,” he answered.
“Seems to me it is hardly time for her to put to sea,” growled the skipper, “and she’s heading almost the same course as we are. It is generally the way with you, though, after you get ashore on the beach, and it will take a week to soak the liquor out of you so you can see enough to know a downhaul from a clew-line.” And the old man turned back to his passengers.
Before two bells in the first watch that evening it was blowing half a gale to the southward out of a clear sky, and the old bark flew along on her course with everything drawing below and aloft.
There was no sea running, so she heaved over and drove along at a rate that bade fair to keep the Blanco below the horizon for several hours. As it grew late the air became quite chilly, and the skipper went below with his passengers.