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“‘The Imperial of Bristol is a full-rigged ship of three thousand tons engaged in a West Australian coasting trade. She carried a crew of eighteen or twenty.’

“No, no, mum, dear,” Claire cried, forcing a smile to her tired eyes. “We mustn’t lose hope. We surely mustn’t. Why, even the paper reckons the crew must have got away. Just think. Twenty-four hours and the storm quitting. You know Jim. I reckon he isn’t the boy to lie around waiting to drown. I’d bet our last cent they got the boats out, and——”

“What then, Claire?” cried the mother, in a sudden passionate outburst. “I’ve looked up those figgers on the map. That boat, with our Jim on it, was right out in mid-ocean, thousands of miles from land. Think of it, girl, and don’t talk foolish. Mid-ocean! Open boats that couldn’t stand half a gale! And they’re not reported picked up. I tell you——”

But the girl had turned to the doorway. A horse-man had just ridden up and flung out of the saddle. It was Jake Forner, Bad Booker’s clerk, and he came straight to the doorway where Claire was standing.