A hundred yards, and the
Fair Play was lost to view; but, keeping his face set toward that
inky horizon, O'Reilly guided his boat perhaps a half-mile nearer
before ordering his crew to cease rowing. Now through the
stillness came a low, slow, pulsating whisper, the voice of the
barrier reef.
The trade-winds had died with the sun, and only the gentlest
ground-swell was running; nevertheless, when the boat drew farther
in the sound increased alarmingly, and soon a white breaker streak
showed dimly where the coral teeth of the reef bit through.
There was a long night's work ahead; time pressed, and so O'Reilly
altered his course and cruised along outside the white water,
urging his crew to lustier strokes. It was haphazard work, this
search for an opening, and every hour of delay increased the
danger of discovery.
A mile--two miles--it seemed like ten to the taut oars-men, and
then a black hiatus of still water showed in the phosphorescent
foam. O'Reilly explored it briefly; then he turned back toward the
ship. When he had gone as far as he dared, he lit a lantern and,
shielding its rays from the shore with, his coat, flashed it
seaward. After a short interval a dim red eye winked once out of
the blackness. O'Reilly steered for it.
Soon he and his crew were aboard and the ship was groping her way
toward the break in the reef.
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