She was a low-hulled, black-painted schooner, keeling over under a press of snowy canvas, until her lee rail was buried in a smother of foam.
"I believe she is headed right for our island," Charley observed.
"If her captain does not know these waters pretty well he'll be liable to pile that beauty up on a rock," Captain Westfield said, anxiously.
It soon become evident that her pilot knew his ground for the schooner's course was shifted again and again as her commander jockeyed her around hidden rocks and through winding channels.
Soon her crew began to take in sail. One after another the snow-white sheets came in until stripped to mainsail and storm staysail she rounded up a mile from shore and hung motionless in the wind.
A tiny blot of color appeared on her deck and crept slowly up her foremast. At the top it opened up, a fluttering red flag.
"She's signalling," the captain exclaimed.
"I have it," Charley cried. "She's that smuggling craft. Her captain is trying to get in touch with the Hunter gang. No wonder I thought I had seen her before."
"I wasn't as lucky as you in getting a glimpse of her that night," remarked the captain, "but I have seen that craft somewhere before. I wonder where it was."
"That likeness to some boat I know struck me hard the night I saw her by the light of the flare, but I guess it's only a chance resemblance," Charley said. "Well, if they are waiting to hear from Hunter, they have a long wait ahead of them."