It was a glorious dawn. The squall had cleared the air, and the sun
emerged in a red glare to gaze upon this spectacle of disaster.
The two small boats kept together and moved slowly off toward the misty
coast of Borneo. By noon, barring mishap, they would limp into the
harbour. However, there would be no flying moor.
And the _Skipping Goone_—well, she had settled deeper and deeper into the
sea, till at last, with a distant sound like a sigh, with her flaming
wound and her shattered masts, she slipped down beneath the waves. The
bolt had plunged through the hull, tearing a ragged gash. Perhaps it had
plunged on down to the very bottom of the sea, for all anyone knew and
for all it mattered now.