He reached out a horny hand and grabbed Dare's arm as though to convince himself of its solidity. "Mr. Dare!" he exclaimed again, tears of thankfulness and joy in his eyes. "Then you're not drowned?"
Dare wrung the old fellow's hand excitedly.
"No, no, not at all. Why, I jumped overboard. I wanted to get word to Saltern, and I didn't tell you for fear you'd prevent me. And I did it, Ben, I did it! We've captured the lot!"
"Then it was fighting I heard?"
"Yes, yes!"
"On deck!" shouted Ben, the light of battle in his eyes. But before they could make a move a wild figure suddenly filled the companion-way, and leaping down into the cabin confronted them menacingly.
It was Pierre. Blood was running down his face. His eyes were bloodshot. His shirt was torn from his body, which gleamed darkly. He had the wild, distracted appearance of one who had suffered overwhelming, humiliating defeat.
When he saw Dare he cried aloud:
"You! Then you didn't drown? Ah, now I see it all! You swam ashore and gave us away, eh? Curse you, you'll suffer for that!"
He leapt towards Dare, who stood his ground. But suddenly he was swept backwards by Ben, who drove in two fists to the charging Pierre's chest. They rang as on hollow wood.