"Five of us," said the composed voice out of the night that seemed now
darker than before. "Four hands and myself. We belong to a yacht--a
British yacht--"

"Come on board!" shouted Lingard. "Why didn't you speak at once? I
thought you might have been some masquerading Dutchmen from a dodging
gunboat."

"Do I speak like a blamed Dutchman? Pull a stroke, boys--oars! Tend bow,
John."

The boat came alongside with a gentle knock, and a man's shape began to
climb at once up the brig's side with a kind of ponderous agility. It
poised itself for a moment on the rail to say down into the boat--"Sheer
off a little, boys," then jumped on deck with a thud, and said to Shaw
who was coming aft: "Good evening . . . Captain, sir?"

"No. On the poop!" growled Shaw.

"Come up here. Come up," called Lingard, impatiently.

The Malays had left their stations and stood clustered by the mainmast
in a silent group. Not a word was spoken on the brig's decks, while the
stranger made his way to the waiting captain. Lingard saw approaching
him a short, dapper man, who touched his cap and repeated his greeting
in a cool drawl:

"Good evening. . . Captain, sir?"