She was not in Rio Bay. Four pairs of eyes searched every little jetty. She might have tied up and lowered her sail, in which case she would be hard to see. She might have slipped in behind the islands that made the Bay so good a sheltered anchorage for yachts and so suitable a playground for all these noisy natives with their rowing boats.
“We’ll sail right through the Bay,” said Captain John, “and out into the open water, so that we can see right up towards the Arctic. If we can’t see her then we’ll turn back and cruise among the islands.”
The Swallow slipped through the Bay, and almost as soon as she was clear of the long island that lies in front of the town, there was an eager shout from Roger, “Sail Ho!”
“It’s her,” shouted Susan.
From the northern entrance of the Bay, beyond the long island, it was possible to see far up the lake, a long blue sheet of water stretching away into bigger hills than those which rose from the wooded banks of the southern part.
Little over a mile away a small white sail was moving rapidly towards a promontory on the western shore. In a moment or two it disappeared.
“What shall we do now?” said Titty.
There was a short debate.
Roger was all for going on. John thought not.
“We know just where they are now,” he said. “They may be trying to draw us away from the island. If we sail down there, and they come out again, we might have to race them back to our own island. If we stay here we can be sure of getting back there before they do. I think we’d better stay here and eat our pemmican and see whether they come out or not.”