Brandon of the Engineers

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."