“Roosh him, sir, somehow or another,” cried the old sailor, “and I’m a-going first.”
“What! He will shoot you.”
“Let him try,” cried Bostock, grimly. “I aren’t forgot what he did to me with one of the nigger’s clubs. I’ve got Jackum’s here, and maybe I shall get its big knob home quicker than he can put in a shot.”
Carey had no further protest ready, and he sat in agony, hardly realising that it was strange the various sounds had not awakened the doctor.
But his every sense was on the strain, as he listened to a sudden rush down past the saloon door, expectant of shot after shot from the beachcomber’s revolver.
But no shot was fired, though a revolver was fast clenched in the old ruffian’s hand.
There was, however, to be no hand-cuffing and carrying off to the justice of man, for the spirit of Dan Mallam the beachcomber had passed out that morning, as the old sailor said, with the tide.
The small steamer lying anchored close by in the lagoon had after a long and dangerous search at last achieved her purpose, having been despatched, with Carey’s father and the captain and chief officer of the Chusan on board, in search of the wreck if it were still on the reef, and the meeting was a joyful one.
“I never could think you were dead, my boy,” was whispered in Carey’s ear; “and your dear mother always felt the same. I knew I should find you, and I have, thank God! thank God!”
“Car-ee’s ole man?” said a voice just after, and Mr Cranford turned sharply round to stare at the shining black face.