"God strike me dead, Jim Rawlings! I wouldn't have reckernised yer only for yer voice. Why, what the hell——"
Rawlings laughed boisterously. "Delighted to meet you again, old comrade. Mr. Barry, this is Mr. Bill Warner, an old Solomon Island shipmate and friend of mine. Come below, Warner, and tell me what has gone wrong."
The big man saw a warning glance in Rawlings' dark eyes, which he took in quickly, and the two descended below.
They remained talking together for nearly two hours, and then at four bells Mr. Warner staggered up on deck, and with a vast amount of hilarious profanity and blasphemy called his boat's crew together and addressed them in their own tongue.
"The captain of this ship is my friend. We are going with him to a new land. We must stand by him when the time comes, for there may be throats to cut." Then he added in English, "And now you can all go to hell until the morning. I'm going to sleep."
So saying, he flung himself upon the skylight, and in a few minutes was snoring in a drunken slumber.
Rawlings sauntered up on deck a few minutes later, and stood watching the progress of the brig through the calm and glassy water, for Barry had lowered one of the boats, and the crew were towing her clear of the outlying horn of the reef. The wild, half-naked savages who had just come on board were sitting or lying on the main-deck, smoking or chewing betel-nut, while their boat was towing astern.
"How are we getting along, Mr. Barry?" said the captain pleasantly.
"Pretty well, sir. Once we are clear of that long stretch of reef we need no more towing. But it is just as well to be on the safe side, for there's no bottom here at ninety fathoms."
Rawlings nodded. "Just so. We don't want to get piled up on Ponapé, Mr. Barry." He took a turn or two along the deck, and then with his hands in his pockets inclined his head towards the sprawling figure of Mr. Bill Warner.