Madden looked around at his abstracted friend, who was still staring into the molten sunrise.
"When the Japanese come to nibble at the fish, we might get some food from them," suggested Madden with American delight in the ridiculous.
"Perhaps so."
"And fans, parasols, and little ivory curios—souvenirs of the Sargasso, when we roll up the dock and take it home."
Smith nodded soberly, still gazing.
"What are you looking at, Caradoc?" laughed the American.
"I say, Madden, just look at that sun, will you? I thought I saw a little black fleck against it straightaway to the east right down on the horizon."
"You're injuring your sight, that's all," the American was still smiling. "You know black specks will dance before your eyes if you stare at the sun too long."
"But this was shaped like a sail," persisted Smith, staring again.
"Illusion," diagnosed Madden promptly, but his eyes followed Caradoc's eastward nevertheless.