Beyond them in the farthest offing were the tiny sails of the almost
becalmed junk. They were rowing toward it. Eight mariners from a Christian
land!
In that broad expanse of land and sea and sky, the only moving object was
the boat bearing Captain Falk and his men, which minute after minute
labored across the gently tossing sea.
Already the monsoon was weakening. The winds were variable, and for the
time being scarce a breath of air was stirring.
From the masthead we watched the boat grow smaller and smaller until it
seemed no bigger than the point of a pin. The men were rowing with short,
slow strokes. They may have gone eight or ten miles before darkness closed
in upon them and blotted them out, and they must have got very near to the
junk.
The moon, rising soon after sunset, flooded the world with a pale light
that made the sea shine like silver and made the island appear like a dark,
low shadow. But of the boat and the junk it revealed nothing.
The cook and Blodgett and I were talking idly on the fore hatch when
faintly, but so distinctly that we could not mistake it, we heard far off
the report of a gun.
"Listen!" cried Blodgett.
It came again and then again.
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