Looking to it that my pistol was ready for use, I followed Dawson out on the wide stretch of beach which separated us from the ill-fated vessel which we had left but a few days before. The Dart lay high out of the water, and a brief glance showed that she had lost none of her masts and but little of her rigging. "I'll wager that five hundred dollars will put her into as good a condition as ever," remarked Tom Dawson, and Matt Gory agreed with him.
As the first mate had said, there were a number of natives on the craft's deck, and now we noted another batch of the negroes on the shore.
"They are a hard looking-crowd," I whispered, as I gazed at them. They were all men, tall, slim, and wearing little but shirts and loincloths and head-coverings made of Manila straw. The crowd on the beach was chattering away at a lively rate, in a language none of us could understand, although I soon became convinced that it was not Spanish.
We had covered half the distance to the Dart, when one of the natives discovered us and pointed us out to his companions. At once the whole party ran forward and surrounded us, asking a dozen questions at once.
"Don't understand you," shouted Tom Dawson. "Don't you speak United States?"
