The Captain picked up the glass he had been using, and turned it on the figure in the veranda.
“That’s him,” said he. “That’s the chap right enough. Take a look.”
Harman put the glass to his eye, and the veranda and the man leaped within ten feet of him.
The man was short, stout, bull-necked, bullet-headed, wearing a close, clipped beard and with his hair cut to the bone.
“He ain’t a beauty,” said Harman. “Look, he’s going into the house, and here he comes out again.”
Sprengel had brought out a pair of marine glasses and was observing the ship through them.
“Wonder if he recognises me,” said the Captain.
Then he stood silent, whistling now and then, and now and then giving an order to the fellow at the wheel.
One of the hands was heaving the lead; his hard, thin voice came up to the bridge in a snarl: