They turned to behold a villanous-looking man beaming benignly upon them. He was dirty, his clothes were in rags, and through a riotous bristle of beard that hid his thin features a mangy patch showed on either cheek. It was undeniably "Fingerless" Fraser, but how changed, how altered from that radiant flower of indolence they had known! He was pallid, emaciated, and bedraggled; his attitude showed hunger and abuse, and his bony joints seemed about to pierce through their tattered covering. As they stood speechless with amazement, he made his identification complete by protruding his tongue from the corner of his mouth and gravely closing one eye in a wink of exceeding wisdom.
"Fraser!" they cried in chorus, then fell upon him noisily, shaking his grimy hands and slapping his back until he coughed weakly. Summoned by their shouts, Big George broke in upon the incoherent greeting, and at sight of his late comrade began to laugh hoarsely.
"Glad to see you, old man!" he cried, "but how did you get here?"
Fraser drew himself up with injured dignity, then spoke in dramatic accents. "I worked my way!" He showed the whites of his eyes, tragically.
"You look like you'd walked in from Kansas," George declared.
"Yes, sir, I worked! Me!"
"How? Where?"
"On that bloody wind-jammer." He stretched a long arm toward the harbor in a theatrical gesture.
"But the police?" queried Boyd.
"Oh, I squared them easy. It's you they want. Yes, sir, I worked."
Again he scanned their faces anxiously. "I'm a scullery-maid."