“You can land there,” he shouted, in a husky voice. “Steer between those rocks right ahead of you—port a little—steady! now give way!”

      The next moment the boat’s keel grated on the shingle, and the man ran forward to meet it. He was followed by a lad, apparently about Tom’s own age, and a young girl of eleven or twelve, whose long fair hair hung down her back almost to her waist, its golden colour contrasting strangely with her skin, which was so tanned by exposure to the fierce rays of the tropical sun, that the child was as brown as any gypsy.

      The poor creatures looked thin and careworn; their cheeks were hollow, their eyes were unnaturally bright, and wore an anxious expression of mingled hope and doubt—an expression rarely seen except in the faces of those whose hearts have been sickened by hope long deferred. Their only garments consisted of a sack-like tunic made of goat-skin which reached some inches below the knee, but left the arms and neck bare.

      With what delight and emotion did the castaways welcome their rescuers!

      “Are you alone on this island?” inquired Mr. Weatherhelm, wrapping his pea-jacket round the girl’s shoulders.

      “We are,” the man answered, tears of joy and thankfulness coursing down his sunken, weather-beaten cheeks. “These are my children, and here have we been for more than twelve weary months. My name is Weston, and I was owner and commander of the Sea-mew, whaler, which was wrecked on this island after the crew deserted her.”

      “Just what I thought!” exclaimed the old mate. “But we mustn’t waste time palavering; get your traps together—”

      “They are here,” interrupted Mr. Weston, holding up a battered tin deed-box. “This is all I care to bring away.”

      “Then jump into the boat and let’s be off,” cried Weatherhelm. “Now, Missy! I’ll take care of you.”

      The castaways needed no second bidding, and in another half-hour they found themselves safe on board the Surat Castle.

      Captain Ladds received the unfortunate strangers with the utmost kindness, expressing his deep commiseration at their sorry condition, and heartily congratulating them on their providential release from their seagirt prison. Mr. Weston thanked him in broken tones, but was too overcome with feelings of emotion to say very much, and presently he asked that he and his children might be allowed to retire to rest; so the captain took him down to his own cabin, whilst the lady passengers carried off the little girl, and Tom Flinders marched the boy to his single state-room, and insisted on his taking possession of the only berth.

Chapter Three.

       Table of Contents

      Tom Flinders is reminded of the old saying—“The World is very small.”

      The sun was high in the heavens when young Weston awoke next morning, and on turning his face to the light, the first object that his eyes rested upon was Master Tom Flinders, seated on a portmanteau, regarding him with pitiful looks.

      “Halloa, old fellow!” exclaimed our hero, colouring red as a turkey-cock, at being thus caught staring; “how do you find yourself this morning? You’ve had a jolly long caulk!”

      For a moment young Weston appeared a little confused; but he quickly recollected the joyful events of the previous day, and feeling much refreshed by his protracted sleep, replied that he was all right, and would like to get up and go on deck.

      “All serene!” said Tom; “turn out by all means; and while you’re washing, I’ll see what can be done in the way of clothes. There’s some water in the basin, and there’s my sponge and towels. It’s too late for you to have a tub, for the bath-room boy goes off duty at ten, and it’s now close on twelve.”

      “Then I must have slept nearly twice the round of the clock!” cried the other in surprise.

      “Going on that way,” laughed Tom, diving into his portmanteau and fishing out several garments. “My ‘duds’ are most of them packed away in my trunks,” he went on, “and they, you know, are down in the hold with the rest of the heavy luggage; but I’ll do my best to turn you out respectably. By the way, what’s your name?”

      “George—George Maurice Weston.”

      “Well, George, here’s a pair of white flannel ‘bags,’ and a ditto shirt—they’re my old cricketing ‘togs;’ but I thought they’d come in useful during the voyage, and so left ’em out. Here’s a jacket, rather the worse for wear, and that stupid fellow, the second steward, capsized a plate of soup over it the other night—see, there are the stains, down the right shoulder and arm! But you won’t mind that?”

      “Not a bit,” put in George, taking the unlucky garment. “I’ve learnt not to be over particular.”

      “There’s a collar, a cravat, and a pair of socks; and there’s a pair of shoes—nice, easy ones, too. Now, look alive, old chap; slip ’em on, and then we’ll go and get some grub.”

      Rattling on in this manner, Tom helped his new friend to dress—or fitted him out “from truck to kelson,” as he expressed it; for Tom had become very nautical in his language since he joined the Surat Castle—and then surveyed him with a critical eye.

      “Come, that’s not so bad! you look less like an ancient Briton now,” said he, crowning young Weston with a cricket cap upon which was embroidered the school-house badge. “Feel a bit queer though at first, eh, George Maurice?”

      “Rather so,” George answered, wriggling himself. “The shoes and socks are the worst. You see I’ve gone barefoot for such a precious long time. However, I shall no doubt get accustomed to them in a day or two.”

      “Of course you will,” assented Tom. “Now come along and I’ll introduce you to the ladies; we have five on board—three married women and two girls. Won’t they make a fuss over you and that little sister of yours!”

      When our hero and his friend made their appearance on deck they found Mr. Weston (now shaven and shorn, and clad in a suit of true nautical cut, the property of Mr. Weatherhelm) standing near the skylight talking to the skipper and Mr. Rogerson, the chief mate of the Surat Castle.

      “Halloa!” he exclaimed, catching sight of his son’s head-gear. “I ought to know that cap.”

      “It is the Rugby school-house cap,” said its owner with conscious pride. “We have only lately worn them; but I’ve heard old school-house men say that they were introduced years ago—long before Arnold’s time—but dropped out after a while.”

      “That’s quite right,” rejoined Mr. Weston. “I am an old Rugby boy myself, and well remember the school-house badge being introduced. It must be nearly five-and-thirty years ago,” he added with a sigh, “when I was about little