"Kroom," he remarked, "keep on fishing. Those chaps are in the inlet, out of sight, just now. One more tack and we can stretch on across the channel, not far from that buoy."
They all knew that he meant the bit of white float, the life-preserver, that was continually appearing and disappearing among the waves to the eastward.
"Now!" exclaimed Captain Kroom; but at that instant Sam shouted,
"Oh! Guess it's a bluefish!"
"Just the thing!" replied Kroom. "Pull! While you're getting him in we'll try for that float. It isn't a hundred yards away."
At that moment, unknown to the crew of the Elephant, the four wreckers were plodding along across the dry hot sand of the bar-island, eager to reach the seaward beach, from which they might discover what was going on inside of the tossing, foaming lines of the surf.
The life-preserver was nothing but a long India-rubber-cloth bag of wind, bent around in a ring. It was meant to be worn under the arms of a person in the water. There it was, bobbing to and fro on the water, but not getting along very well. The tide was strong, but there was a hitch as of something that dragged on the bottom.
"Got it!" exclaimed Pickering, as the Elephant swung around close to the float. "I'll fetch it up as quick as I can! Oh!"
He had not caught it, for it bobbed away from him as if it were dodging.
"Gaffed!" said Captain Kroom the next instant. "That's it, Pete. Now hold hard. Don't let it get away."