“I cannot imagine what has become of them,” Mr. Neale said, with anxiety in his voice and deep wrinkles of worry on his forehead.
“Oh, they’ll turn up, as boys do, and usually safe and sound,” the lieutenant said.
One of their men sighted a sail and gave her position. Lieutenant Sommerlee gave orders; the helm was shifted and a course was laid to intercept the vessel, not because the boys might be on it, but to hail it and see if any news had been picked up somewhere.
As they came within better sighting distance, Lieutenant Sommerlee handed Mr. Neale his binoculars.
“Didn’t you say Sam’s sloop we overhauled was going back to Jamaica?” he asked. Clarence Neale nodded. “I told Sam he was discharged, as far as our party was concerned,” he acknowledged.
“Look!” ordered the lieutenant. Mr. Neale lifted and focused the glasses.
“Great—guns!” he cried. “That’s the Treasure Belle, now, as sure as I live!”
They lost no time in laying alongside and hailing.
But Sam did not answer. Instead one of two men spoke through the deepening twilight.
“Sam—why he’s sick in the cabin. We’re taking him to a doctor!”