The hours grew into early morning. How eagerly did the pilot often turn
his tired head to gaze backward toward the east, to see if but the first
faint gleam of coming dawn had appeared there. And how joyfully did he
welcome it when that desire became reality.
So the unfolding day found them, still heading onward, and with
everything promising well. Jack, of course, had his binoculars out as
soon as it was possible to see any distance. Shortly afterwards he made
an important announcement.
"Smoke head of us, fellows. Much too much to come from any one steamer.
You can see it with the naked eye, dead on there!"
After taking a good look, Tom, who was at the wheel, gave his opinion.
"It might be a vessel afire," he said slowly. "One of those tank-oil
steamers would make a fierce smoke, you know. But on the whole I rather
believe it's a convoy of troop ships going across to France."
"I never thought of that, Tom!" cried Jack, again clapping the glasses to
his eyes; "but I reckon you're right, for I can see funnels of black
smoke rising from different quarters. Yes, there must be dozens of boats
in that flotilla. What had we better do?"
"Go aloft, and try to keep out of sight among the little clouds," was the
immediate reply Tom made. "We could continue to watch, and see all that
passed below, at the same time keeping ourselves fairly invisible.
They'll hardly be looking up so as to discover a speck floating past.
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