On the small expanse of coral at some distance, countless years had spread a thin upper covering of mold and dust until enough earth was deposited to support a small, stunted palm tree. As the four looked a strange, bluish radiance, seeming to be on the ground itself, showed the lower part of the tree trunk in relief against its faint glow.
The light seemed to move about within a narrow radius.
“It can hardly be phosphorus,” stated Mr. Neale, keeping his voice low and his words calm to prevent any growth of superstitious fear.
“What is it, then?” whispered Tom.
“Sam may be over there,” Nicky gave the logical explanation. But as he spoke they heard the swish of Sam’s oar and the grate of the dinghy coming alongside on the port side.
“Don’t say a word,” cautioned Cliff. “See if he mentions it.”
Sam did mention the light, and at once!
“I don’t like that, sar,” he said to Mr. Neale, as he paid out the dinghy line and looped it over a stern cleat of the sloop. “I tell you, sar, I was educated not to believe in ghosts, sar, but we are right in the place where all the pirates hid gold and laid in wait for ships. If not the English and Spanish and French, then the Bahama buccaneers and the ones that started up their trade from Cuba before they were wiped out for all time.”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Neale, rather sharply. “Pull up that dinghy, Nicky. Want to come along? We’ll see what it’s all about, eh?”
“No, sar—don’t you!” exclaimed Sam.