Over in the west, from beneath the tattered, flying edge of the storm, dropped the red globe of the setting sun; dropped slowly until it touched the sea rim.
I watched it--and rubbed my eyes and stared again.

For over its flaming portal something huge and black moved, like a gigantic beckoning finger! Da Costa had seen it, too, and he turned the Suwarna straight toward the descending orb and its strange shadow.

As we approached we saw it was a little mass of wreckage and that the beckoning finger was a wing of canvas, sticking up and swaying with the motion of the waves.

On the highest point of the wreckage sat a tall figure calmly smoking a cigarette.
We brought the Suwarna to, dropped a boat, and with myself as coxswain pulled toward a wrecked hydroairplane.

Its occupant took a long puff at his cigarette, waved a cheerful hand, shouted a greeting.