“Oh, it couldn’t be possible, could it?” gasped the girl. “That would be too wonderful a coincidence.”
“Not as wonderful as you might think,” Brandon returned decisively, gaining confidence in the idea now that some one opposed him. “We are in the very part of the ocean—or at least, I have reason to think we are—in which the Silver Swan was last reported. I tell you, Milly, it may be she!”
“If you could only get to her and see,” cried the young girl anxiously.
“I—I will get to her!” declared Brandon, and then he handed the glass to her and went back to sit by poor Swivel and think it over.
Milly, however, remained to watch the distant wreck through the instrument.
By all appearances it was much more buoyant than the Success. Whereas the latter staggered up the long swells and labored through the trough of the sea, the strange derelict rode the waves like a duck, and, propelled by some current, moved a good deal faster, though in the same general direction as themselves.
Brandon, meanwhile, sitting beside the injured boy, who was now sleeping deeply, was turning over in his mind the project he had suggested.
He knew, even better than Milly, that the Success was sinking deeper and deeper every hour, and that before evening the water might begin to wash in over the stern.
The ocean was rapidly becoming smooth. Together they would be able to launch a small raft—a hatch covering, perhaps—place Swivel thereon, and by using oars, or perhaps a small sail, might reach the distant derelict quite easily.
Whether it was the Silver Swan he had sighted, or not, it certainly rode the swells better and seemed to be far more seaworthy than the Success.