“You can land there,” he shouted, in a husky voice. “Steer between those rocks right ahead of you—port a little—steady! now give way!”
The next moment the boat’s keel grated on the shingle, and the man ran forward to meet it. He was followed by a lad, apparently about Tom’s own age, and a young girl of eleven or twelve, whose long fair hair hung down her back almost to her waist, its golden colour contrasting strangely with her skin, which was so tanned by exposure to the fierce rays of the tropical sun, that the child was as brown as any gypsy.
The poor creatures looked thin and careworn; their cheeks were hollow, their eyes were unnaturally bright, and wore an anxious expression of mingled hope and doubt—an expression rarely seen except in the faces of those whose hearts have been sickened by hope long deferred. Their only garments consisted of a sack-like tunic made of goat-skin which reached some inches below the knee, but left the arms and neck bare.
With what delight and emotion did the castaways welcome their rescuers!
“Are you alone on this island?” inquired Mr Weatherhelm, wrapping his pea-jacket round the girl’s shoulders.
“We are,” the man answered, tears of joy and thankfulness coursing down his sunken, weather-beaten cheeks. “These are my children, and here have we been for more than twelve weary months. My name is Weston, and I was owner and commander of the Sea-mew, whaler, which was wrecked on this island after the crew deserted her.”
“Just what I thought!” exclaimed the old mate. “But we mustn’t waste time palavering; get your traps together—”
“They are here,” interrupted Mr Weston, holding up a battered tin deed-box. “This is all I care to bring away.”
“Then jump into the boat and let’s be off,” cried Weatherhelm. “Now, Missy! I’ll take care of you.”