Manchurian Books

I lashed
Huldricksson fast in the berth and ran up on deck.
The long, peaceful swells had changed into angry, choppy waves from
the tops of which the spindrift streamed in long stinging lashes.
A half-hour passed; the squall died as quickly as it had arisen. The
sea quieted. Over in the west, from beneath the tattered, flying edge
of the storm, dropped the red globe of the setting sun; dropped slowly
until it touched the sea rim.
I watched it--and rubbed my eyes and stared again. For over its
flaming portal something huge and black moved, like a gigantic
beckoning finger!
Da Costa had seen it, too, and he turned the Suwarna straight toward
the descending orb and its strange shadow. As we approached we saw it
was a little mass of wreckage and that the beckoning finger was a wing
of canvas, sticking up and swaying with the motion of the waves. On
the highest point of the wreckage sat a tall figure calmly smoking a
cigarette.
We brought the Suwarna to, dropped a boat, and with myself as coxswain
pulled toward a wrecked hydroairplane.


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