The people on board the yacht, who watched eagerly the first sail they
had seen since they had been ashore on that deserted part of the coast,
soon made her out, with some disappointment, to be a small merchant brig
beating up tack for tack along the inner edge of the reef--probably with
the intention to communicate and offer assistance. The general opinion
among the seafaring portion of her crew was that little effective
assistance could be expected from a vessel of that description. Only
the sailing-master of the yacht remarked to the boatswain (who had the
advantage of being his first cousin): "This man is well acquainted here;
you can see that by the way he handles his brig. I shan't be sorry to
have somebody to stand by us. Can't tell when we will get off this mud,
George."

A long board, sailed very close, enabled the brig to fetch the southern
limit of discoloured water over the bank on which the yacht had
stranded. On the very edge of the muddy patch she was put in stays for
the last time. As soon as she had paid off on the other tack, sail was
shortened smartly, and the brig commenced the stretch that was to bring
her to her anchorage, under her topsails, lower staysails and jib. There
was then less than a quarter of a mile of shallow water between her and
the yacht; but while that vessel had gone ashore with her head to the
eastward the brig was moving slowly in a west-northwest direction, and
consequently, sailed--so to speak--past the whole length of the yacht.
Lingard saw every soul in the schooner on deck, watching his advent in
a silence which was as unbroken and perfect as that on board his own
vessel.

A little man with a red face framed in white whiskers waved a gold-laced
cap above the rail in the waist of the yacht. Lingard raised his arm in