ispered Bostock. "Keep it up a bit longer,
for I must leave you now. Jackum and I must go off in the whale-boat
and pilot them inside. Can't you keep it up just an hour more?" and the
old sailor's voice shook as he spoke.

"Yes," said Carey, as his teeth grated together. "Go on."

"Right, my lad. I don't think there's anything to fear, but take my
gun, and if that old ruffian does rouse up and crawl to the saloon
door--'tarn't likely, or he'd ha' been here before, but I says it, my
lad, because it would be your dooty, and you must--shoot, sir; shoot
him. He aren't a human man, only a something in a man's shape; a
murderer, that's what he is, and you must shoot him as if he was a wild
beast. Now, Jackum, give him the gun, and come with me."

The black obeyed with alacrity, and a few minutes later Carey heard the
faint plash of oars, and sat there in the utter silence, watching the
doctor's pallid thin features, as he still slept deeply, and listening
for the sounds from below which did not come.

It must have been close upon two hours before that silence was broken by
the sound of voices, the grating of a boat against the steamer's side,
and the trampling of feet on deck.

"Jackum backum," cried the black, as he dropped down, with his face
shining with excitement.

"Ahoy there!" cried Bostock. "How goes it, my lad? Here we are.
Boat's crew well armed, and we're going to have Old King Cole out before
many more minutes are gone."

"Take care," cried Carey, excitedly. "Think of the danger. What are
you going to do?"

"Roosh him, sir, somehow or another," cried the old sailor, "and I'm
a-going first."

"What! He will shoot you."

"Let him try," cried Bostock, grimly. "I aren't forgot what he did to
me with one of the nigger's clubs. I've got Jackum's here, and maybe I
shall get its big knob home quicker than he can put in a shot."

Carey had no further protest ready, and he sat in agony, hardly
realising that it was strange the various sounds had not awakened the
doctor.

But his every sense was on the strain, as he listened to a sudden rush
down past the saloon door, expectant of shot after shot from the
beachcomber's revolver.

But no shot was fired, though a revolver was fast clenched in the old
ruffian's hand.

There was, however, to be no hand-cuffing and carrying off to the
justice of man, for the spirit of Dan Mallam the beachcomber had passed
out that morning, as the old sailor said,