He walked for'ard and stood on the topgallant foc'sle and gave a loud hail.
“Boat ahoy!”
The singing ceased in an instant, and then Randall's voice answered—
“Hallo! what is it?”
“Come aboard and get a glass of grog. Tell the men in the other boats they can follow in turn.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the half-caste in such loud tones that he was heard distinctly on the after-deck, “they'll be glad enough of it; we'll get plenty of cold fresh water presently outside, and some rum to put inside will be just the thing.”
Both Raymond and the two Greeks laughed, and then a minute or two later Cheyne and his boat's crew were alongside, and were given a pint of rum between them. They drank it off “neat,” and after lighting their pipes, went back to their boat, and let another come alongside. She was manned by a dozen natives, who were all given a stiff glass of grog. They remained but a few minutes, and then went off to give place to the third boat, in which were twenty men. They scrambled over the side, laughing and talking, and then, just as the first five or six of them had been served, the rain poured suddenly down and made such a terrific noise that the shouts of the men in the other boats could not be heard, and the ship was at once enveloped in a thick steamy mist, which rendered even objects on deck invisible.
“It will only last about ten minutes,” shouted Frewen to Ryan as they, with Raymond and Maliê, took shelter in the companion-way.
“Where are all those men of yours?” asked the mutineer somewhat anxiously.
Frewen's answer reassured him. “All bolted for shelter,” he said with a laugh, “without even waiting to get their grog. I hope your men will let them crawl in somewhere.” Then turning to Maliê, he said in English—