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By and by for we must have been pulling a good half-hour the single mast of a small shallop showed itself; and Petersen, who had been very quiet and grave, burst into an incoherent fit of crying, only relieved by broken exclamations of mingled Danish and English. "'Tis the Upernavik oil-boat!
They know the Lusitania lies somewhere about Eighteenth Street and the Oceanic's next to her, and that's about all. It's the same everywhere. Ask a man in the Strand how to get to Tidal Basin; he won't know what Tidal Basin is, let alone where it is. As for an oil-boat Humph!" "I shall have your company, then?" I said. He shrugged his shoulders. "If you don't object, sir," he said.
"I ain't a skipper of no oil-boat any longer. I'm a beach-comber." He fixed the wallowing bark with glistening eyes. "Gawd strike me," he murmured, "ain't she a daisy? It's a little Klondike. Come on, son." The two went down the ratlines, and Kitchell ordered a couple of the hands into the dory that had been rowing astern. He and Wilbur followed.
They were, however, nearly starving, but managed to secure a seal, which saved them for the time; their feet were badly swollen, and they had no desire to sleep. On the 1st of August, however, they had reached familiar waters. Two days later a cry was heard, ending in a "hullo." Men were coming, in a small boat. "It is the Upernavik oil-boat," said Petersen. He was right.
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