LAND IS SIGHTED.
The vanishing of the steamer for some reason left with the boys a
feeling of blankness and loneliness that had not, with all their
distress, been there before.
“Just think of everybody on board that steamer having a good time, and
here we are so close to them and so wretched,” grumbled Tom.
“Getting sore about it won’t make things any better, Tom,” admonished
Jack. “Let’s be cheerful.”
“Cheerful? Huh!”
“Well, try to be as cheerful as we can, then. Getting in the dumps
about it won’t help matters any.”
But Tom sat silently in the stern of the boat until he grew so sleepy
that Jack told him to lie down and cover himself with the sail and take
a nap.
“I’ll tell you when to relieve guard,” he said.
Tom looked ashamed of himself. Jack’s tenderness touched him and made
him realize how cross and selfish he had been, while Jack was trying to
bear up amidst their troubles.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” he said contritely, holding out his hand.
That was all, but Jack understood and clasped the proffered hand warmly.
“Now lie down, old chap, and get some sleep. Let’s hope that by the
time you wake up things will have improved.”
Tom crawled under the canvas of the sail and in a jiffy was off in
dreamland. It appeared to be not more than ten minutes later that he
was aroused by somebody throwing a bucket of water over his head. At
least that was the way it appeared to Tom. He sat up angrily, not at
first realizing where he was.
He saw Jack regarding him amusedly. The fog had gone and in its place a
brisk breeze blew, whipping the sea into small waves. One of these had
just broken in spray against the bow and given Tom his morning bath in
such an unceremonious manner.
“Any sign?” asked Tom, as he saw what appeared to be a look of hope on
Jack’s face.
“No, not a sign,” rejoined Jack, understanding without further words
just what Tom meant.
“But you look sort of—sort of——”
“Cheered up?”
“Yes, that’s it. What makes you so?”
By way of rejoinder Jack ordered Tom to “look there,” pointing off over
the port bow of the dancing cockleshell. Tom followed the direction of
Jack’s finger with his eyes. He saw, as the boat rose on the crest of
a wave, a small patch that appeared to be a cloud of a delicate purple
hue.
“Well, what of that?” he inquired, not seeing much interest in a cloud.
“That’s land over yonder; I’m sure of it,” declared Jack.
“What sort of land?” Tom appeared skeptical.
“Why, an island, of course. One of the Bahamas, I imagine. We’re about
in that latitude.”
“Never mind the island a minute; just where are we, and where’s the
_White Shark_?”
“I’ll have to say ‘don’t know’ to both questions. I’ve no more idea
than you have.”
“But we didn’t row during the night, and we can’t have been so awfully
far from her. In that case, why is it that we see no sign of her?”
“My theory is that we got caught in one of the ocean currents—may be in
it yet—and were dragged from the vicinity of the submarine during the
night. Then, too, we may have rowed in the wrong direction last night
when first we discovered that we were lost.”
“That being the case, I don’t see what you have to look cheerful over.”
“You don’t? Well, I do. Suppose that’s an island over yonder. We can
get up the sail and be there in a few hours.”
“What will we find when we get there? Sand and monkeys, I suppose.”
“There are no monkeys in the Bahamas, Tom, and so far as the island
being a barren one is concerned, we shall have to take our chance on
that.”
“I guess it’s worth trying, anyhow. We might as well do that as toss
about out here.”
“Let’s hoist the sail then.”
This was quickly done, the canvas being of the leg-o’-mutton variety.
Under the small sheet the little boat flew skimmingly over the waves.
Had the circumstances been different, the boys would have thoroughly
enjoyed the exhilarating sport. But in their case, it was more business
than sport that occupied their thoughts. If the distant speck which
Jack believed was an island should prove to be an uninhabited one,
their position would be about as bad as bad could be. They ate their
last provisions for breakfast, and a sorry meal it made, and drank
almost the last of their precious water, only leaving a small quantity
for emergencies.
As they flew along it soon became evident that Jack’s surmise was a
correct one. The distant land was an island, and upon it was something
that at first puzzled them. This was what looked like a tall, leafless
tree.
“I wonder what it is?” murmured Tom as they gazed at it.
“A royal palm, perhaps, with its top blown off in the last hurricane,”
hazarded Jack.
But Tom suddenly burst into a joyous exclamation.
“Royal palm, nothing, Jack! It’s—it’s a lighthouse!”
“Hurray! Then the island _is_ inhabited, and we are all right!” cried
Jack, his relief showing in his glowing face.
“Hold on. Don’t go too fast,” counseled Tom, “we’re not there yet, you
know.”
As if in answer to his words, at almost the same instant a big wave
flopped over the bow of the boat. Jack, who was steering, had let the
craft veer to a little, not being very skillful at steering with an
oar, which he had to use, there being no rudder in the boat.
“Jiminy! Do you want to sink us?” remonstrated Tom, starting to bale
out the water with the tin can in which they had brought their bait.
This kept him busy so long that he had not much time to notice his
surroundings, but presently, raising his head above the bulwarks, he
was alarmed to see that the sea had increased in violence till it was
really rough. The wind, too, was freshening and blowing harder every
minute.
The boat was riding the big rolling seas like a duck, and Jack was
handling her with real skill, but at any moment he might let the little
craft fall off and then there was every chance of a big sea boarding
and swamping her.
“Goodness, we seem to get out of one trouble only to tumble into
another,” exclaimed Tom. “Easy there!”
A shower of spray flew high over the small boat, drenching its
occupants to the skin.
“This would be all right sailing near home,” said Jack, shaking the
water out of his curls, “but right now it strikes me that we could do
with a little less sea.”
“Do you think she’ll last till we get to land?” asked Tom uneasily.
“If it doesn’t blow any harder, we ought to do all right.”
“But if not?”
“Then we are going to have a pretty tough time in making port.”
For an interval after that, neither of them spoke. It took all Jack’s
skill to handle the boat, while Tom kept his eyes riveted on the island
which every moment grew more distinct in outline.
You are not to think, though, that the boy could gaze continuously at
the island. At times the boat would plunge down into a watery valley
from which it seemed impossible she could ever rise. Again, topping a
wave crest, Tom was able to view the island for a flash.
It was a low, sandy islet with a few stunted wind-blown palms at one
end. At the other stood the lighthouse—a tall, thin tower painted in
broad red and white bands alternately.