“It is, sir.”
“Then, Mr Gascoyne, if you will do me the favour to step into this boat, I will have much pleasure in accompanying you on board your schooner.”
“By all means,” replied Gascoyne, with a bland smile, as he rose and threw away the end of another cigar, after having lighted therewith the sixth or seventh in which he had indulged that day. “Your boat is well manned and your men are well armed, Captain Montague; do you go on some cutting-out expedition, or are you so much alarmed at the terrible aspect of the broadside of my small craft that—”
Gascoyne here smiled with ineffable urbanity, and bowed slightly by way of finishing his sentence. Montague was saved the annoyance of having to reply, by a sudden exclamation from his lieutenant, who was observing the schooner’s boat though his telescope.
“There seems to be some one swimming after that boat,” said he. “A man—evidently a European, for he is light-coloured. He must have been some time in the water, for he is already a long way from shore, and seems much exhausted.”
“Why, the man is drowning, I believe,” cried Montague, quickly, as he looked through the glass.
At that moment Frederick Mason’s strength had given way; he made one or two manful efforts to struggle after the retreating boat, and then, tossing his arms in the air, uttered a loud cry of agony.
“Ho! shove off and save him,” shouted Montague, the moment he heard it. “Look alive, lads, give way! and when you have picked up the man, pull straight for yonder schooner.”
The oars at once fell into the water with a splash, and the boat, large and heavy though it was, shot from the ship’s side like an arrow.
“Lower the gig,” cried the captain. “And now, Mr Gascoyne, since you seem disposed to go in a lighter boat, I will accommodate you. Pray follow me.”