It was ridiculous. It was shooting a mosquito with a field gun.
All his thoughts ended in utter absurdity. He felt that he had run up
against some vast power. The schooner _Minnie B_, the tug
_Vulcan_, were but trifling units in the enigma of this deserted,
weed-clogged sea. It must be some power whose operations were
ocean-wide.
Why such a spot should be chosen?--Why a power that sank one ship out of
hand and towed another mile after mile?--Why it operated only at
night?--What lay at the heart of this brooding fabric of terror--he
could not form the slightest conception. Outlawry, piracy, smugglery,
were all goals too small for such operations.
His thoughts seemed to be physical things trying to clamber up the
smooth polished side of an enormous steel plate. They made not the
slightest progress. The more he thought, the more unaccountable all
phases of the question became.
In absolute perplexity, he turned to the Englishman at his side. He
could just make out the blur of Caradoc's face.
"Have you a theory about this, Smith?" he asked in a low voice.
The Englishman nodded in silence.
"What is it?"
"I--I got my head hurt awhile ago. I believe I'm delirious--dreaming."
Leonard thought this over without any feeling of amusement. "That
doesn't explain why I see it too," he objected gravely.
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