He had been sent to Shard, whom he should have avoided as a relative of
the Vaughn faction. Shard had sent him to Gary, while Gary, five
thousand miles away, was wreaking upon the boy all the hatred inspired
by the haters of his family far back in the Southern mountains.
At last he raised his head and peered out upon the watery waste. As
his gaze swept from one side to the other an exclamation of amazement
dropped from his lips and he sprang to his feet.
Scarcely a quarter of a mile away was the Wanderer, with her sails all
spread and flapping idly from side to side as she rolled gently upon
the dead swell of the sea. The wind had died away and the slaver lay
between the yawl and the eastern dawn, a dim yet recognizable bulk.
Her dark, graceful proportions were not to be mistaken.
"This beats the nation!" was Ralph's next ejaculation. "This is what
one might call pure luck. Now if I only had a pair of oars."
Not having any, he tried his sail, but found the attempt useless, and
he was compelled to sit there thrilling with impatience to be aboard
once more. Finally, as he was about to rise and shout, he noticed
something white being waved from one of the stern windows.
While he was puzzling his brain over the meaning of this, a line of
black heads appeared above the bulwarks, and sundry black, naked forms
ran up the rigging. At the same time a chorus of barbaric yells rang
out, that chilled the boy's blood, even at that distance.
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