And the last hurried good-bys were spoken, and the last embraces given, and the friends of the voyagers hastened over the gang plank to the steam tender which had brought them to the ship.
Then the farewell gun was fired, and the Asia stood out to sea—her passengers standing in lines to gaze on the receding land.
Mr. Force and his party were walking up and down the deck of the steamer, when they saw coming from the opposite direction a figure so remarkable that it would at once have attracted attention anywhere.
It was the tall, stout figure of an old man, with a fresh, red face, clear blue eyes, a white mustache, and a commanding presence. He wore the uniform of an American skipper, with its flat, gold-rimmed cap.
As he approached Mr. Force stared, and then started and held out his hand, exclaiming:
“Capt. Grandiere! You here! Why, where did you drop from, and where is Roland Bayard?”
The gruff old sailor stopped to lift his cap to the ladies, and to shake hands all around, and to be introduced to the Earl of Enderby, and to shake hands with him, before he replied to Mr. Force’s first question:
“My ship, the Kitty, was taken by that infernal pirate, the Argente. I was set ashore, alone, on the English coast. I had some correspondents at Liverpool, who supplied me with funds to return home. That is all.”
“But—where is Roland Bayard?”
“With the pirates.”