Some hours later, when the sea was flecked with white, they closed with a
strip of gray-green forest that seemed to run out into the water. The
launch rolled and lurched as the foam-tipped combers hove her up and the
awning flapped savagely in the whistling breeze. Away on the horizon,
there was a dingy trail of smoke. Presently Jake stood up on deck, and
watched the masts that rose above the fringe of trees.
"There's a black-top funnel like the Danish boat's, and a flag with red
and white on it, but it's hanging limp. They don't feel the breeze
inside."
He jumped down as Dick changed his course, and they passed a spit of
surf-washed sand, rounded the last clump of trees, and opened up the
harbor mouth. The sunshine fell upon a glaring white and yellow town, and
oily water glittered between the wharf and the dark hulls of anchored
vessels, but Dick suddenly set his lips. He knew the Danish boat, and she
was not there.
"She's gone," said Jake with a hint of relief in his voice. "That was her
smoke on the skyline."