George Allan England

“ In the main cabin it was almost pitch dark, for hardly the ghostliest glimmer seeped through the skylight. A cadenced snoring told him that somebody was there—but who? If one of the engineers, or both, no matter. It could not be the third seaman or the cook, for both of them bunked forward. The only real peril lurked in Zanelli or the captain. Were they ashore, or, by ill chance, had one of them passed the night aboard the yacht?
“Well, the only way to find out is to go and see!” Wingate realized. ”

“ He entered, closed the door, and found himself within three feet of the redoubtable Jaccard.
Just where the electric light was, Wingate well knew. When the yacht's dynamo was idle, storage batteries fed all the lights. There was sure to be current. He reached for the little chain, twitched it, and flooded the cabin with a brilliant glare.
Right in front of him the captain lay, in rather absurdly striped pyjamas. It seemed ridiculous that a man of his immense strength should wear striped pyjamas—unheroic, somehow, and out of keeping. ”

“ The blood leaped in his arteries. He felt himself a man, able to fight a man's battle. Drenched, sweating, he labored—and laughed.
Presently the cockpit was fairly empty, and Wingate swung on his course again. His distance at sea was now so great that, in order to make a run for the place where he thought the Voyageur was lying, he could take the waves on his port quarter. The tender shipped little water on this cut, and quickened speed. Before long the northern end of the island glimmered vaguely in sight, and Wingate began spying as best he could for the cove itself. ”