"I'm over sixty-four!" cried Tom, hotly. "How in the world could Mr.—it's a joke; and a mighty poor one, Dick Travers."
"Joke nothing!" thundered Dick, excitedly. "See him—see him—there he is, waving a handkerchief; shouting, too—saw his mouth open. He's right by that little boat—life-boat, I mean. Get away—"
Jack had the glass again.
A moment's breathless silence; every eye was upon him. They saw his eyebrows arch in surprise, his lips move.
"Well?" cried Tim, hoarsely.
The glass slipped into Bob's outstretched hand, while:
"It's Uncle Stanley, sure as shootin'," fell from Jack Conroy's lips.
Steadying himself, Bob leveled the instrument. The "Evergreen State" flashed into view with delightful clearness; she seemed to be but a stone's throw away.
Eagerly Bob scanned the passengers crowding to the rail. Yes! That man with the handkerchief was certainly Mr. Lovell. He saw him raise a megaphone to his lips; over the air came a string of words, but the steady splashing of water and the briskly rushing wind made them but a confused medley of sound.
They strained their ears, and again came the voice.