on their faces, which, in this glare, brilliant and sinister, took on a deathlike aspect and resembled the faces of interested corpses. Then the bowman dropped into the water the light he held above his head and the darkness, rushing back at the boat, swallowed it with a loud and angry hiss.
“Five of us,” said the composed voice out of the night that seemed now darker than before. “Four hands and myself. We belong to a yacht—a British yacht—”
“Come on board!” shouted Lingard. “Why didn't you speak at once? I thought you might have been some masquerading Dutchmen from a dodging gunboat.”
“Do I speak like a blamed Dutchman? Pull a stroke, boys—oars! Tend bow, John.”
The boat came alongside with a gentle knock, and a man's shape began to climb at once up the brig's side with a kind of ponderous agility. It poised itself for a moment on the rail to say down into the boat—“Sheer off a little, boys,” then jumped on deck with a thud, and said to Shaw who was coming aft: “Good evening . . . Captain, sir?”
“No. On the poop!” growled Shaw.
“Come up here. Come up,” called Lingard, impatiently.
The Malays had left their stations and stood clustered by the mainmast in a silent group. Not a word was spoken on the brig's decks, while the stranger made his way to the waiting captain. Lingard saw approaching him a short, dapper man, who touched his cap and repeated his greeting in a cool drawl:
“Good evening. . . Captain, sir?”
“Yes, I am the master—what's the matter? Adrift from your ship? Or what?”
“Adrift? No! We left her four days ago, and have been pulling that gig in a calm, nearly ever since. My men are done. So is the water. Lucky thing I sighted you.”
“You sighted me!” exclaimed Lingard. “When? What time?”
“Not in the dark, you may be sure. We've been knocking about amongst some islands to the southward, breaking our hearts tugging at the oars in one channel, then in another—trying to get clear. We got round an
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