The sky from sea-line to sea-line was crusted with stars, a triumphant, cloudless, tropic night-sky beneath which the _Dryad_ rode at her anchor, lifting lazily to the swell flowing up from beyond the great Bahama bank. She was Skelton’s boat, a six-hundred-tonner, turbine engined, rigged with everything new in the way of sea valves and patent gadgets, and she had anchored at sundown off Palm Island, a tiny spot, gull haunted, and due west of Andros.…
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