“Smoke,” he exclaimed laconically, characteristically jerking his thumb toward the islands astern fast being swallowed up in the glassy sea. “They ain’t taking no chances. That stretch of shore yonder,” he added, his gaze on the shore line ahead, “must be the mouth of the Davao River.”
The lads gazed eagerly at the faint curl of smoke astern, but it gave them but scant encouragement, for it was only too evident that before the stranger, if it were one of the many small gunboats patrolling the islands, could hope to get within gunshot of the “Negros,” the steamer would have crossed the shallow bar of the Davao River and be safe from the pursuit of the deeper vessel.
“If we could only stop her,” Phil lamented. “Smash those rickety engines or haul fires in the boiler.”
O’Neil in answer cast a comprehensive glance at the sentries on guard on the upper deck. The evil-looking natives were squatted in plain sight, their loaded rifles held tightly in their brown fingers.
“Oh! for three good Krag rifles,” Sydney cried petulantly; “we could clear this deck and then jam the steering gear there, and by the time they could overpower us the gunboat, if it is one, would make them heave to.”
In a short time the girl and her brother joined them, and the native guards arose and moved farther away.
“It is one of your gunboats,” she announced smiling mischievously at the evident pleasure of the midshipmen; “Colonel Martinez has recognized her through his telescope. She is giving chase, but Dumaguete is now scarcely twenty-five miles ahead, so I fear there will not be a rescue.”
Phil calculated quickly. If Martinez could see the gunboat with his glass to recognize her she could not be over ten to twelve miles astern. The “Negros’” best speed was ten knots, which meant two and a half hours before she could reach the river bar. He knew that several of the gunboats were good for fifteen knots. If this were one of the fast ones, which he earnestly prayed it was, in two hours and a half the gunboat would be up to the “Negros.” His face brightened as these figures awakened his hopes.
While the Americans went through the pretense of breakfast the “Negros” steamed swiftly toward the shore, and they saw with rising hopes the white hull of a large vessel raise itself slowly out of the deep blue of the tropical sea.
Phil eyed the Filipino girl questioningly. He could tell nothing from her sphynx-like face. Would she be glad to be rescued from this band of outlaws or was she at home and safe among them? The respect shown her by the leader and his men seemed to point to the conclusion that she was of importance among her people. He knew not what were those crisp words spoken the night before to prevent the fierce onslaught of the natives, but they had calmed the storm. She had saved their lives, that much was certain; and for that, even though she was at heart in sympathy with this band of pirates, he owed her his gratitude.