“It’s the hull of a vessel an’ her masts have been carried away sure.”
“Do you think it is the brig, Caleb?” the young second mate asked eagerly.
“Ye got me there. It may be, and then ag’in it may not. We’ll run down an’ see.”
The storm was by no means abating and Caleb dared not run very close to the wreck.
As they approached it, however, the former mate of the Silver Swan became convinced that it was not the wreck they sought. He was familiar with every line of Captain Horace Tarr’s vessel and this, he declared, was not it.
Suddenly Swivel’s sharp eyes caught sight of something which the others had not seen.
“There’s something tied to that stump of a mast, sir,” he exclaimed, pointing toward the forward part of the wreck. “It’s a flag o’ some kind.”
“It’s a signal!” Mr. Coffin declared. “There’s some poor soul on the wreck. See—there he is.”
At the instant he spoke they all descried a moving figure on the derelict—some one, who, clinging with one hand to the cordage which still hung to the mast, with the other waved a signal frantically at the approaching steamer.
“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Coffin, strongly moved by the scene. “What shall we do? No mortal man can help him in this gale.”