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They were of all rigs and sizes, from the lordly Black Ball liner of a thousand tons to the small fore and aft coasting schooner of less than fifty. Among them all there was but one steamer, a handsome brig-rigged, black-painted and black-funnelled craft of fifteen hundred tons, flying the house flag of the Peninsular and Oriental Company.
They looked, and saw a black-funnelled bulk floating across the watery strip mantled by the blaze. "Maybe they thought it'd burn," suggested Marylyn. "See, there's sparks flying that way." Dallas leaned back against the door. "I guess that's it," she said slowly. Then after a moment, "But why didn't they bring her straight across? There's no place to tie up downstream."
Nearer at hand, just shaving the long strip of sandy, wooded point that jutted far out into the lake, a broad raft of timber, pushed by a hard-working, black-funnelled stern-wheeler, was slowly forging its way to the outlet of the lake, its shadowy edge sprinkled here and there with little sparks of lurid red, the pilot-lights that gave warning of its slow and silent coming.
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