“Bear up, O’Neil, and run down and investigate,” Phil said quietly. “Hail the launch and tell her to proceed toward Ukula, but keep outside until we catch up, and watch us for signals.”
With the wind free the fast schooner fairly skimmed over the water, racing toward the curl of smoke barely distinguishable.
“Smoke down here means something,” O’Neil said as he returned with Stump after seeing that all the running gear was properly belayed and the sails trimmed. Then he added cheerfully, “We’ll be eating breakfast at the expense of our absent friend Captain Scott in a few minutes. Stump knows where he keeps his eatables, and we’ve got a seaman with us who can make as good coffee as you can buy in a first-class ‘Frisco’ hotel.”
It seemed ages to the anxious Americans before the small speck of a hull appeared beneath the curl of misty smoke.
“She’s painted white,” O’Neil exclaimed as he handed the binoculars to Phil. The midshipmen each took a look, then shook their heads. She was too far away. “Imagination, O’Neil,” Sydney suggested.
“Another fifteen minutes and we’ll know for sure,” Sydney said nervously. “I hope it’s the ‘Sacramento.’”
The steam launch had disappeared, swallowed up against the background of the high mountains of the island.
Slowly the speck on the horizon took shape. Anxiously the Americans watched, each eager to recognize some outline that would tell them whether the strange vessel was flying their flag or that of the power which to all intents and purposes was their rival, if not enemy.
“What will you do,” Sydney asked Phil excitedly, “if she’s not the ‘Sacramento’?”
Phil glanced aloft at the straining canvas. The wind had come out at southeast, and on the sea whitecaps of foam were here and there appearing. He knew that within the hour or even less a strong trade wind would be blowing fair for Ukula harbor.