“So? I never thought of that. Well, we will make a dicker with them. If they find the treasure, and divide fairly, we will——. Say, it’s beginning to rain. Let’s get under cover. When it rains here it’s a deluge.”
Jim had listened interestedly to the conversation, and was cognizant now of the heavy downpour.
“It will make the atmosphere a little cooler,” he mused, “but it will also wash out the trail.”
With the first gleam of light, the storm having ceased, the deck was again peopled with interested spectators, and Jim, listening, was treated to a surprise that, figuratively speaking, nearly took his breath away.
“Say, it looks like—what do you make it out to be, Marion?”
“It looks like—it is, the Sea Eagle.”
“The Sea Eagle,” gasped Jim, in a barely suppressed voice. “Say, but what queer things do happen,” and once more a breath of exultant joy possessed him. Then the misery of his situation reasserted itself. Here was his own ship near at hand, and he a helpless prisoner, and he fairly raged and struck the cabin door with impotent fury.
Later on, as the light increased, he was able to see his beloved ship clearly outlined against the sky, and, closely observant of all that transpired, he saw Broome himself, giving directions from the bridge.
Signals were evidently exchanged between the two ships, for later, Broome was seen to enter a small boat which was rowed toward the Marjorie.
Jim had nothing to do for a while. He surveyed the surface of the bay for signs of breaking fish, or the splash of a vagrant water bird, dreaming of the possibilities built on the hope of repossessing himself of the Sea Eagle.