At that moment there was a report and a puff of smoke out at sea, and a shot, purposely aimed high, flew over the cliff, and fell a little to the rear of the Moors. That was the finishing stroke. Their horses stampeded and dashed straight for the ravine, the riders in wild pursuit behind them. Three minutes afterwards Mr. Greatorex had his whole party in the boat, and the sailors, with a final rousing cheer, pulled for the yacht.
Tom saw everything in a mist as he went aboard. Worn out with the exertions and excitements of the past few days, he was only vaguely conscious of being fussed over, and treated, as he said afterwards, more or less as a baby. He was put to bed, slept heavily for several hours, and awoke with a most exigent hunger. The yacht was in motion. He rose, bathed, put on some clean things, and, feeling himself again, thankfully obeyed Mr. Greatorex’s hearty call to dinner.
Around the well-spread table he found the rest of the party already seated. At the head was Mr. Greatorex, with Sir Mark Ingleton at his right; at the foot, Captain Bodgers with Herr Schwab. The German had tucked his napkin between his shirt and his waistcoat, and was gazing with ecstatic anticipation through his glasses at the covered entrée dishes just brought in by Timothy.
Tom was taken aback, and not a little moved, when Sir Mark Ingleton rose from his seat, and, grasping his hand, said—
“Thank you, Mr. Dorrell. I have heard the whole story from Mr. Greatorex and your Moorish follower. It is not for me to speak of the public service you have rendered; personally, I owe you more than I can say, and I shall never forget it.”
“So!” chimed in Schwab, rising stiffly from his chair. His left hand gripped his fork; his right enveloped Tom’s. “I zank you, for myself personaliter, and for ze Kaiser, for Schlagintwert, and for Business. Fill my glass, if you please,” he added to Timothy, whose smile instantly changed to a frown—“I vish to cry ‘Hoch!’ No, no, not too full, for ze ship moves, and ze champagne vould slop over.”
Schwab’s intervention came in the nick of time to relieve Tom’s embarrassment.
“Come, Tom, my dear fellow,” cried Mr. Greatorex, “sit down. We were only waiting for you.”
“Where’s Oliphant?” asked Tom.
“Hm! M’Cracken is at the furnace,” replied Mr. Greatorex.