“How many do you muster?” asked the stranger, presumably the master of the vessel.
“Ten, all told,” I answered, “of whom six are more or less hurt. We were fifteen to start with, but five were killed by the fire of the pirate.”
“I’m afraid you’ve had a bad time, takin’ it all round,” said our interlocutor. “Stand by, chaps, to lend the poor fellers a hand up over the side.”
“What ship is this?” I asked, when at length I went up the side and found myself confronted by a very ordinary-looking individual, attired in a suit of thin, rusty-looking blue serge, with a peaked cap of the same material on his head, who extended his hand in cordial welcome to me.
“The Indian Queen, of and from London to Bombay, twenty-three days out, with passengers and general cargo,” he answered.
“Well,” said I, “I am exceedingly obliged to you for receiving us; for, to tell you the truth, after the experiences of last night, I am very glad to find a good, wholesome ship once more under my feet. Open boats are all very well in their way, but they are rather ticklish craft in which to face such a gale as we had last night.”
“By the by,” he said, “are those boats of yours worth hoisting in?”
“Yes,” I said, “they are both very good boats, and it would be a pity to send them adrift if you can find room for them.”
“Oh, I dare say we can do that,” he answered. “Besides, the skipper might have a word or two to say about it if we was to turn ’em adrift. By the way, Mr—er—”
“Grenvile,” I prompted, continuing—“I must apologise for not having sooner introduced myself. I am senior midshipman of the Shark, and was prize-master of the slaver Dolores, which I had instructions to take into Sierra Leone.”