In truth, I must have presented a strange figure, and despite our position, I could not help indulging in a laugh at Jack Thompson’s face of dismay at what he had been about to-do; but speedily checking it, I asked with much concern how he had been saved, and whether there were any others of the crew as fortunate as ourselves.
“Only one more that I know of,” replied Jack, “and that’s the young minister chap as was allus reading.”
“What, the Reverend Mr Ferguson, the missionary that we were to set ashore in Madagascar?”
“Yes, that’s him, and I must say he improves upon acquaintance. I confess I didn’t think much of him on board, with his preachifying; but dash my top-sail if, with all his pale quiet face he ain’t a jolly fellow in the moment of trouble. Ay, he’s as cheerful as a sandboy, and somehow, his little bit of scriptur now seems rather consoling than otherwise.”
“But how, Jack, in Heaven’s name, did you escape from those terrible waves?”
“Why, much about the same way you did, I guess. We lashed ourselves to spars, and after a bit of severe tossing, got pitched up on this here shore.”
“And what made you come to these rocks?”
“Why to seek shelter from that blessed furnace of a sun.”
“And,” I added eagerly, “have you seen any of the natives?”
“No, but we thought we heard one about half an hour ago,” said a voice behind me. Looking round, I saw it belonged to the young missionary, who was standing looking down upon us, for we were seated on the rock. “However,” he continued, “‘the native’ has turned out to be no other than a fellow-comrade in distress.”