“That’s all right. Now we’ll get back, my men,” said Captain Bodgers, and some few minutes thereafter Tom was assisted up the side of the yacht, and into the arms of Mr. Greatorex.
“God bless my soul, what has happened?” said the worthy merchant.
“We’ve got him—Ingleton,” murmured Tom faintly. “He’s with Oliphant, captured again. Schwab’s in the cave with Abdul.”
“He’s light-headed, poor fellow!” said Mr. Greatorex. “Here, some one, blankets, and brandy—look alive now.”
Tom was soon stripped, dried, swathed in warm blankets, and dosed with brandy till his blood tingled. Mr. Greatorex fussed round him, waiving his proffered explanations until he was thoroughly recovered. Then Tom gave him an account of all that had happened since he left the yacht, Mr. Greatorex breaking in every now and then with “Dear, dear!” “You don’t say so!” “The villains!” “What a mercy!” and such like exclamations. Early in the narrative he interrupted with a question:
“You say Oliphant! Who’s Oliphant? Am I on my head or my heels?”
“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know,” said Tom with a smile. “Your new stoker was Oliphant in disguise. You see, Byles, your late stoker, had to remain at home and attend to his sick mother.”
“No more sick than I am!” declared Mr. Greatorex. “Don’t believe he had a mother! M’Cracken, indeed! I’ll M’Cracken him! I hope his father will get him well thrashed when he goes back to school.”
“He’s rather big for that, don’t you think?”
“The bigger the better! I never heard of such a thing! The impudence of it! And taking us all in so! What things are coming to I don’t know. No obedience, no respect for age—pretending to be Scotch, too——”