"Sail O! Dead to the no'th'ard, comin' down like smoke! Schooner she be, too." They waited yet another half-hour, the sky clearing in patches, with a flicker of sickly sun from time to time that made patches of olive-green water.

Then a stump-foremast lifted, ducked, and disappeared, to be followed on the next wave by a high stern with old-fashioned wooden snail's-horn davits.

The snails were red-tanned.
"Frenchmen!" shouted Dan.

"No, 'tain't, neither.

Da-ad!" "That's no French," said Disko.