He made for the beach and stood there waiting. The rocks to westward cut off his view of the oncoming boat and he had time for a moment’s thought.
He felt like an actor who had to appear on the stage with a half-learned part. Thinking entirely of how to hide his treasure, he had forgotten to invent a story to account for his presence on the island.
It was too late now, for here came the boat’s nose round the western rocks, a large, white-painted boat, flashing eight oars in the sun.
Now she was coming dead on for the beach and Gaspard was wading out knee-deep to meet her. Within ten strokes of the beach, the men ceased rowing and she came bravely on, the bow oar standing up and shouting something in English which Gaspard did not understand; he waved and shouted a reply in French and the next moment he was clutching the thwart, being hauled aboard and shoved aft.
The mate of the vessel, who was steering, a hatchet-faced American, hauled Gaspard down beside him and without waiting for word or question, which would have been useless, considering that he could scarcely speak a syllable of French, shouted orders to the crew and the boat poled off from the shore and began its return journey to the ship.
“French?” said the mate, when they were under way.
Gaspard nodded, “Oui, oui,” then pointing behind him, “wreck;” it was one of the few English words that he knew. The hands in the boat, all Americans, lean-faced, bronze, chewing as they rowed, looked with interest at the marooned one and made remarks about him one to the other, but the mate, after the first interrogation, seemed to have no interest in anything but getting back to the ship as quickly as possible. There was a life belt in the stern of the boat with the words “Anne Martin” on it.
Gaspard pointed to the name and then at the ship they were approaching.
“Anne Martine?” asked he.
The mate nodded and spat into the sea.