On board the Malabar two men paced the deck, waiting for dawn.
It came at last. The sky lightened, the mist melted away, and then a long, low, far-off streak of pale yellow light floated on the eastern horizon. By and by the water sparkled, and the sea changed colour, turning from black to yellow, and from yellow to lucid green. The man at the masthead hailed the deck. The boats were in sight, and as they came towards the ship, the bright water flashing from the labouring oars, a crowd of spectators hanging over the bulwarks cheered and waved their hats.
“Not a soul!” cried Blunt. “No one but themselves. Well, I'm glad they're safe anyway.”
The boats drew alongside, and in a few seconds Frere was upon deck.
“Well, Mr. Frere?”
“No use,” cried Frere, shivering. “We only just had time to get away. The nearest thing in the world, sir.”
“Didn't you see anyone?”
“Not a soul. They must have taken to the boats.”
“Then they can't be far off,” cried Blunt, sweeping the horizon with his glass. “They must have pulled all the way, for there hasn't been enough wind to fill a hollow tooth with.” “Perhaps they pulled in the wrong direction,” said Frere. “They had a good four hours' start of us, you know.”
Then Best came up, and told the story to a crowd of eager listeners. The sailors having hoisted and secured the boats, were hurried off to the forecastle, there to eat, and relate their experience between mouthfuls, and the four convicts were taken in charge and locked below again.