By this time they had come within sight of where the Sea Eagle lay riding quietly at her anchor, but not going close enough to be recognized by any on board who might be on the watch.
“There isn’t any signs of their getting ready to sail,” decided Jim, after a few moments study of the yacht. “So I think we are safe for another day.”
“There is something that would suit us to a T,” remarked Berwick on their way back, indicating a trim looking schooner-rigged yacht. “She’s a beauty,” he observed enthusiastically.
The yacht seemed to rest as lightly upon the water as a sea bird. Long, low, with not too much freeboard, it rose and fell on the waves, tugging at the anchor chains as though impatient to slip her leash and bound away on her course. It was painted in a pale metallic yellow that glittered in the rays of the setting sun like gold.
“The owner of that boat won’t hire her,” declared Berwick. “I bet he thinks more of her than he does of his wife.”
“I don’t believe he has one,” declared Jim. “Almost as good as the Sea Eagle, isn’t she?”—which was high praise from Jim. “Perhaps we could hire her. We might take a look at her.”
“The Storm King!” he exclaimed, when they came near enough to read the name on the bow. “Why that is the boat the old captain told us about when he had the brush with Broome.”
“Brush with Broome is good,” said Berwick, with a laugh, “but I thought he said that boat was in the South Seas.”
“Must have come in. The captain said Singleton owned her. Maybe he would like to charter her. We’ll try him anyhow. Storm King, ahoy!” hailed Jim pulling up to the side of the yacht.
“Boat ahoy,” answered a sailor on deck.