Finally, late in the afternoon, Sumner
discovered a trail of black smoke coming up-stream and towards him. As
he anxiously watched it, trying to decide which way he should go to
head it off, he discovered a white banner with a scarlet cross flying
out cheerily just beneath the trail of smoke. Then he knew that help
was at hand, and no matter what other boats might do, that one would
stop at his signal.
As it drew near, he was amazed to see that instead of a river steamer,
such as he had expected, the red-cross boat was a fine sea-going yacht;
and as she came dashing towards him, her sharp stem cleaving the brown
waters like a knife, her shining black hull, varnished houses, polished
metal, and plate-glass flashing in the light of the setting sun, this
sailor son of a sailor father thought her the most beautiful thing he
had ever seen. She slowed down at his signal, and in another minute he
was alongside.
A line was flung to him, and making it fast to the _Psyche's_ painter,
he clambered up a ladder that had been dropped from the gangway. As he
reached the deck, a fine-looking young fellow, apparently but little
older than himself, and wearing a natty yachting uniform, stepped
forward to meet him.
Sumner briefly explained his errand, and pointing to the red-cross flag
at the foremast-head, added that he believed aid might be expected from
those who sailed under it.
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