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Updated: June 12, 2025
Silence, indeed, was maintained until they had landed on a rocky shelf, and the boat had pushed off on its return journey. Then Flora McDonald spoke. "So far we are safe," she said. "But I confess I was frightfully scared when that patrol-boat stopped us." "You did not look so," said Betty Bruce, in a voice of masculine depth. "I did not dare to," she answered.
We had almost given up hope of reaching the land when, in a smother of foam and spray, there appeared a patrol-boat, the commander of which asked in his breezy naval way who we were and what the blazes we thought we were doing.
He did not bring those uncouth vermiculations to a stop until he was well back in the shelter of a rusty capstan, cut off from the light by a lifeboat swinging on its davits. As he clambered to his feet again he saw this light suddenly go out and then reappear. As it did so he could make out a patrol-boat, gray and low-bodied, slinking forward through the gloom.
"There are many crocodiles to-night," he finally said, pointing toward the log where a slight ripple, widening into vanishing rings, closed over a dark form. "That's a queer kind of fish!" The sailors on the patrol-boat crowded around the speaker, glad of any excitement to break the monotony of their vigil.
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