All the telescopes in use were turned in the same direction.
“Yes, that is a white man, no doubt about it,” said the commander. “He has taken off his shirt and is waving it. Heave the ship to, Mr Tarwig. Call the gig’s crew away, Mr Foley, and pull in to ascertain what he wants. There can be little doubt that it is a matter of importance. Come off again as soon as possible, for we shall probably find places further along the coast, where the white people are hard-pressed by the blacks.”
The commander’s orders were speedily obeyed, and Norman Foley, without the loss of a moment, followed by Gerald who was directed to accompany him, lowered himself into the gig. He was eager to be off. Every moment of time was precious; he had vividly realised the truth of the commander’s last remark.
“Give way, lads, give way!” he exclaimed, imparting his eagerness to the boat’s crew.
They bent lustily to their oars, and the boat shot rapidly over the blue waters towards the sandy beach, where the white man had been seen. It was yet impossible to discern him, however, without a glass. Mr Foley kept his eyes fixed on the spot, hoping that he would soon again come in sight.
“I see him, sir,” cried Gerald; “he is still waving his shirt, and seems in a desperate hurry. Perhaps he is some one who has escaped from the blacks, and he wants us to go and help some white people attacked by them.”
“Very probably,” answered Norman Foley, with a scarcely suppressed groan.
The boat was nearing the shore.
“He is now making for the west side of the bay, towards a reef of rocks which runs out some way into the sea,” exclaimed Gerald. “He expects that he shall reach us sooner.”
“I see him,” said Mr Foley; but directly afterwards Gerald exclaimed—