As usual, Bulger was right. When the grab was overhauled, the men on board, dark-skinned Marathas with very scanty clothing, made signs that they were in distress.
"Throw her into the wind," shouted the captain.
Mr. Toley at the wheel put the helm down, the longboat was lowered, and with some difficulty, owing to the heavy sea, the thirty men on the grab were taken off. As they came aboard the Good Intent, Diggle, who was leaning over the bulwarks, suddenly straightened himself, smiled, and moved towards the taffrail. One of the newcomers, a fine muscular fellow, seeing Diggle approaching, stood for a moment in surprise, then salaamed. The Englishman said something in the stranger's tongue, and grasped his hand with the familiarity of old friendship.
"You know the man, Mr. Diggle?" said the captain.
"Yes, truly. The Gentoos and I are in a sense comrades in arms. His name is Hybati; he's a Maratha."
"What's he jabbering about?"
The man was talking rapidly and earnestly.
"He says, captain," returned Diggle with a smile, "that he hopes you will send and fetch the crew's rice on board. They won't eat our food--afraid of losing caste."
"I'll be hanged if I launch the long-boat again. The grab won't live another five minutes in this sea, and I wouldn't risk two of my crew against a hundred of these dirty Moors."
"They'll starve otherwise, captain."