island of Malaita. Twenty of them--familiar, all, to Jerry--were from
Meringe; thirty of them came from the Bay of a Thousand Ships, in the
Russell Isles; and the remaining twelve were from Pennduffryn on the east
coast of Guadalcanar. In addition to these--and they were all on deck,
chattering and piping in queer, almost elfish, falsetto voices--were the
two white men, Captain Van Horn and his Danish mate, Borckman, making a
total of seventy-nine souls.

"Thought your heart 'd failed you at the last moment," was Captain Van
Horn's greeting, a quick pleasure light glowing into his eyes as they
noted Jerry.

"It was sure near to doin' it," Tom Haggin answered. "It's only for you
I'd a done it, annyways. Jerry's the best of the litter, barrin'
Michael, of course, the two of them bein' all that's left and no better
than them that was lost. Now that Kathleen was a sweet dog, the spit of
Biddy if she'd lived.--Here, take 'm."

With a jerk of abruptness, he deposited Jerry in Van Horn's arms and
turned away along the deck.

"An' if bad luck comes to him I'll never forgive you, Skipper," he flung
roughly over his shoulder.

"They'll have to take my head first," the skipper chuckled.

"An' not unlikely, my brave laddy buck," Haggin growled. "Meringe owes
Somo four heads, three from the dysentery, an' another wan from a tree
fallin' on him the last fortnight. He was the son of a chief at that."