"Yes,"
he murmured politely, "Japanese do nibble at the fish."
Madden looked around at his abstracted friend, who was still staring
into the molten sunrise.
"When the Japanese come to nibble at the fish, we might get some food
from them," suggested Madden with American delight in the ridiculous.
"Perhaps so."
"And fans, parasols, and little ivory curios--souvenirs of the Sargasso,
when we roll up the dock and take it home."
Smith nodded soberly, still gazing.
"What are you looking at, Caradoc?" laughed the American.
"I say, Madden, just look at that sun, will you? I thought I saw a
little black fleck against it straightaway to the east right down on the
horizon."
"You're injuring your sight, that's all," the American was still
smiling. "You know black specks will dance before your eyes if you stare
at the sun too long."
"But this was shaped like a sail," persisted Smith, staring again.
"Illusion," diagnosed Madden promptly, but his eyes followed Caradoc's
eastward nevertheless.
As far as his sight could reach up the golden path, he saw the black
markings of seaweed; then his vision became lost in a mist of
illumination. However, in this region, he could distinguish things dimly
and in flashes.
Presently, in one of these clear instants, he saw flashed, like the
single film of a moving picture, the tiny black silhouette of a ship's
sail against the dazzling east.
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