"Come," he said roughly, "Schmidt want you aboard Tara!"
He half dragged me up the companionway and across the deck, where I had a glimpse of our engineer lying bound in the sun, his gray hair clotted with blood. Rairi motioned me into the dinghey alongside, sprang in after me and signed to the oarsman to pull us across to the Tara. Schmidt was standing by the rail.
"Where's the Kanaka boy?" he asked.
"Swim ashore last night; maybe shark take him—no matter."
"Let him go—no harm can he do us. Wait for me."
I clambered over the rail in obedience to Schmidt's gesture, and he followed me below. My uncle's stateroom was open and in great disorder. We halted opposite the door of my own cabin. The German drew from his belt a heavy Colt's revolver, cocked it, unlocked the door quickly, and pushed me inside. As I stood there, dazzled by the bright light of the porthole, I heard the key turn behind me, and then my uncle's quizzical voice.
"Well, old fellow," he remarked, "it's good to see you safe and sound. We seem a bit down on our luck, eh?"
He was lying in my berth, quietly puffing one of his long, thin cigars.