Three or four paces from the fire and with his back turned towards Burgoyne was a man, naked from the waist upwards and bare below the knees. He was busily engaged in setting up a pointed bamboo, one end of which he had charred in the fire, while close to him was a roll of canvas. It was Peter Mostyn.
"Hello!" shouted Alwyn.
Mostyn turned sharply.
"Hello," he replied, and recognizing the voice continued; "you're just in time for some grub, old bird."
"Hope there's enough for three more, anyway," rejoined Burgoyne.
That was the greeting between two men each of whom had thought the other dead. Typically British, they concealed their emotions under two cheerful grins, afraid lest they should make asses of themselves by betraying what they termed "sloppiness".
"Miss Vivian is safe, then?" asked Mostyn eagerly. He could ask that question without reserve.
"Rather! She's over there. Better get your things on."
Mostyn seized his ragged garments and proceeded to dress.
"It was so jolly hot," he explained. "I just had to strip. Felt a bit like a savage... where have you been? I looked along the beach several times."