“Luff, Pencroft, luff!”
“What’s the matter,” replied the sailor; “a rock?”
“No—wait,” said Herbert; “I don’t quite see. Luff again—right—now.”
So saying, Herbert, leaning over the side, plunged his arm into the water, and pulled it out, exclaiming,—
“A bottle!”
He held in his hand a corked bottle which he had just seized a few cables’ length from the shore.
Cyrus Harding took the bottle. Without uttering a single word he drew the cork, and took from it a damp paper, on which were written these words:—
“Castaway... Tabor island: 153 deg W. long., 37 deg 11’ S. lat.”
Chapter 13
“A castaway!” exclaimed Pencroft; “left on this Tabor Island not two hundred miles from us! Ah, Captain Harding, you won’t now oppose my going.”
“No, Pencroft,” replied Cyrus Harding; “and you shall set out
