“Don’t be alarmed, Chase; it is I,” exclaimed Wilson, as soon as he came within speaking distance. “What possessed you to run off without saying a word to me? It is only by good luck that I have found you again. Do you see what those deserters have been doing?” he added, pointing to the yacht. “Let’s get into one of these boats and take possession of her before they return. We’ve got the best right to her.”
Wilson, who had shouted out these words as he approached the figure, was a good deal surprised at the manner in which his proposition was received. It did not meet with the ready response he had expected, for the figure, whoever he was, remained perfectly motionless and said nothing. That was not at all like Chase, and Wilson began to believe there was something wrong somewhere. He stopped a few feet from the figure, and peering sharply at him, discovered, to his great surprise, that the slouch hat covered a face that did not at all resemble his friend’s. It was a bearded face—an evil face—a face that was quite familiar to him, and which he had hoped never to see again.
“Pierre!” he exclaimed, in alarm.
“’Tain’t nobody else,” was the reply.
For the next few seconds, the two stood looking at one another without speaking—Wilson wondering what was to be done now, and trying in vain to find some explanation for the smuggler’s presence there, and the latter evidently enjoying the boy’s bewilderment.
“What are you doing on this plantation?” asked the young sailor, breaking the silence at last.
“I might ask you the same question, I reckon. We thought you were captured by the Spaniards long ago. That’s what we sent you out here for.”
“We? Who are we?”
“Mr. Bell, Captain Conway, and the rest of us.”