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A ship had been sighted, and there she was on the far-rippled blue, the tepid wind blowing her to life and growth, the sun lighting her sails and turning them to a single triangular pearl.

Nothing could be more beautiful than the far ship on the far sea with the near sea all broken to flashing sapphire, the whole picture framed between the verdurous cliffs of the harbour entrance and lit by the entrancing light of morning.

But Davis had no eye for the beauty of the picture, he turned, ran back to the house, and fetched out Harman.

“Fore and aft rig, maybe eighty or a hundred ton, maybe a bit less,” said Harman, “makin’ dead for the beach. Say, Bud, we been fools. Here’s a ship and never a plan to meet her with, nor a story to tell her.”

“Well, what’s the odds?” said Davis. “We’re shipwrecked, or, if you like it better, we skipped from a whaler. What are you bothering about? We’ve nothing to hide, only the Douro, and we’ve got rid of her. You’ve never thought of that, B. H. You’ve always been going on about Clayton getting the better of us by skipping off with those pearls in exchange for the Douro; hasn’t it ever got into your thick head that since we as good as stole the hooker, he did us a good turn by taking her? There’s not a port he could bring her into without being had, and I’ll bet my back teeth he’s jugged by this, him and his pearls.”