Poor Tom, too dazed and muddled to know what he was doing, was just about to place his letter in the envelope, when the mate came below for the compass. He showed what he had written to Collier, who could not help laughing.

'Write another, Tom, as quick as you can, and enclose it. Otherwise I'm afraid your poor father will think you have gone mad. Hurry up, Tom. Tell your father that you are well, and that you are writing very hurriedly, as a boat is waiting. And say that there is a chance of your being able to get back to Australia by the Virago some time within six months. Perhaps it will be as well to say nothing about these Frenchmen--your letter might be opened, and might lead to the poor wretches being captured by the Queensland police.'

Tom set to work with renewed vigour, and contrived to convey to his father as nearly as possible all that had befallen him since that direful day on Misty Head. Then he went up on deck with the letter.

The boat with the five 'shipwrecked and distressed foreign seamen' was lying alongside, and old Sam was bustling up and down the poop, puffing and grumbling about being delayed on Government service 'by a lot of blessed foreigners.'

A large bag of biscuits, some tinned meats, and other provisions were being passed down into the boat, and Tom stared with astonishment when two of the sun-baked creatures thrust their hands into a sugar bag containing raw potatoes, and began to eat them with the greatest zest imaginable. Their leader stood quietly aft, holding the steer oar, looking straight before him, and giving mono-syllabic orders to his crew regarding the stowage of the water and provisions. Once only he looked up and caught sight of Tom, who was standing just above him, letter in hand; he pulled off his battered and blackened straw hat and bade him good day in low tones, then turned again to watch his comrades. Brief as was the glance which Tom had of the man's features, they seemed somehow to be familiar to him--to remind him of just such another type of face he had seen somewhere--the jet-black hair and eyebrows, and the deep-set and somewhat stern-looking eyes beneath. Where had he seen such a face before? Then he remembered--the captain of the Bandolier! Yes, the resemblance was most striking, although the man before him was not so tall, and his beard and moustache were short and stubbly. Tom was too interested, however, in the men generally to let his mind dwell on the peculiarity of the resemblance, and soon forgot all about it.

As soon as the convicts had stowed the boat properly, the leader looked up at the master of the brig, and said in French, 'I am quite ready, sir.'

'Well, here's the letter--it's not closed, you see.'

'I do not wish to read it, sir,' said the convict, 'therefore I beg you to close it.'

'Oh, all right, just as you please. There, there it is. Now, is there anything else I can do for you? No? Well, good-bye. Let go that line there.'

The boat's painter was cast off, the steersman flung her clear of the ship, the big lug sail was hoisted, and then, following the leader's example, the rest of the wild-looking creatures stood up, waved their hats and caps in farewell, and called out adieu. In ten minutes the boat was slipping out of the lagoon into the long sweep of the ocean swell, and then she was hauled up a point or two, and headed off westward.