“There’s a sailing vessel just beyond the breakers, sir,” the quartermaster on watch reported from the after bridge. “She’s not carrying lights and seems to be heading for the entrance.”
Both officers strained their eyes in an endeavor to make out more plainly a dim shape which the quartermaster’s trained eyes had discovered. Phil’s thoughts went back at once to the schooner seen from Alice’s Mission Hill, far out on the ocean.
“Only a trading schooner,” Lieutenant Morrison pronounced as he focussed his night binoculars upon the ill-defined silhouette of a large schooner under full canvas. “By George, she’s coming through in yachtsman’s style. Not a sheet started, in a stiff breeze too, and not five hundred yards from the reef.
“There! She shortens sail,” he exclaimed admiringly. “Her skipper knows the harbor, that’s certain, or he wouldn’t be taking such chances.”
The sailing vessel was plainly seen to take in all her sails almost at the same time, and the next minute she was in the narrow channel between the barrier reefs upon which the sea was breaking heavily.
“Can it be the ‘Talofa’?” Phil asked excitedly. “Captain ‘Bully’ Scott’s ship?”
Lieutenant Morrison had sent word to the captain of the arrival of a strange sail, and now he waited her nearer approach to “hail” her.
Twice the lieutenant’s hail of inquiry was ignored. The schooner was now abreast, her speed materially decreased, yet still traveling smartly through the water.
“The ‘Talofa’ schooner from Fiji, Captain Scott in command.” The answer was bold and distinct.
“By Jove! How did you guess it?” the lieutenant exclaimed. Then he answered the “Talofa’s” inquiry.