They were both dressed in skins, with high fur caps, and had long sticks in their hands to help themselves as they ran.
“Why, I do believe that must be Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday,” cried Horner, at which all hands laughed.
“He got home long ago, or he never could have written his history, stupid,” said the mate, “but whoever they are we’ll wait for them.”
Still Horner had not got his first idea out of his head. He had not read much, but he had read Robinson Crusoe, and believed in it as a veracious history.
The strangers soon reached the boat.
“Now, I say, ain’t you Robinson Crusoe?” cried Horner, as the white man got up to the boat.
“No, my name is Miles Soper, and I know nothing of the chap you speak of,” answered the stranger.
“I say, mister,” he continued, turning to the mate, “will you take us poor fellows off? We were cast ashore some six months ago or more, and are the only people out of our ship, which went down off there, who saved their lives, as far as I can tell. Sam Cole here and I came ashore on a bit of a raft, and we have had a hard time of it since then.”
“Why, as to that, my man, if you’re willing to enter and serve aboard our ship, I daresay the captain will take you, but he doesn’t want idlers.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” answered Miles Soper. “If you are willing to take us we shall be glad to go, and both Sam and I are able seamen.”