“Is that the man?” And Arness handed him a photograph of a man dressed in white ducks and a straw hat, evidently taken by an amateur.
Carteret looked at the photograph for fully a couple of minutes before he answered slowly—
“No, I don't think that this is the man.”
A few hours later the Spitfire had steamed in close to the land, and a boat was lowered. In this boat were Lieutenant Carteret, a sergeant of marines, with three privates and half a dozen bluejackets.
“I have force enough to take a boat-load of deserters,” remarked the lieutenant to his commander, as he descended the poop ladder on his way to the boat.
Commander Arness laughed. “Oh, well, you know the natives might take it into their heads to resist his arrest. But be careful what you are doing: make perfectly sure that he is the man. You don't know what complications might arise if we carried off the wrong person.”
The moment the boat touched the shore, she was surrounded by a crowd of friendly, brown-skinned islanders, who seemed delighted to see the strangers.
“Any one of you fellows speak English?” asked Mr. Carteret
“Yes, sir,” and a big, burly fellow with a fine open countenance advanced to the officer. “Me speak English, and plenty more men here speak it, too. What you want, sir?”
“Any white men living here?” asked Carteret quietly.