“That you, Bunker?” the captain replied.
“Yes. Who are you?” came suspiciously.
“Myles Rudstone.”
There was an exclamation of surprise, and a moment later a rope ladder was thrown down to us. Baptiste and I and the girl preceded the captain, and as he followed us he cast the boat adrift. At the first sight, seeing him on deck by the glare of a lantern, I was favorably impressed by Hiram Bunker. He was a short, thick-set man, with a sandy beard and a shrewd, good natured face. He scanned Miss Hatherton and myself with open amazement, and shook hands heartily with Captain Rudstone.
“Glad to meet you again, sir,” he cried in a nasal voice. “My mate wakened me up to listen to the row over yonder,” pointing to the shore, “and that’s why I’m on deck at this hour. I might have guessed you had a hand in the rumpus. But what does it mean, anyway?”.
The captain explained, making the situation thoroughly clear, and the little skipper listened with thoughtful attention.
“It’s an ugly scrape,” was his grave comment.
“It is that; but you can get us out of it. What do you say?”
“I say I’ll do it,” cried the skipper. “I’m a Hudson Bay man at heart, and I’ll save the lot of you—hang the risk!”
“And you will sail at once?”