Then, suddenly, he cried in his deep voice,
"Sail ho!"
Hazily, in the silver light that intervened between moonset and sunrise, we
saw a junk with high poop and swinging batten sails bearing across our
course. She took the seas clumsily, her sails banging as she pitched, and
we gathered at the rail to watch her pass.
"See there, men!" old Blodgett cried.
He pointed his finger at the strange vessel. We drew closer and stared
incredulously.
On the poop of the junk, beside the cumbersome rudder windlass, leaning
nonchalantly against the great carved rail, were Captain Nathan Falk and
Chief Mate Kipping. That the slow craft could not cross our bows, they saw
as well as we. Indeed, I question if they cared a farthing whether they
sighted us that day or not. But they and their men, who gathered forward to
stare sullenly as we drew near, shook fists and once more shouted curses. I
could see them distinctly, Falk and Kipping and the carpenter and the
steward and the sail-maker and the rest--angry, familiar faces.
When we had swept by them, running before the wind, some one called after
us in a small, far-off voice, "We'll see you yet in Sunda Strait."
There was a commotion on the deck of the junk and Blodgett declared that
Falk had hit a man.
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