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They heard the anchor go down, and Harman, who climbed the tree to a point where a view of the harbour could be glimpsed between the leaves, reported that the Douro was at anchor two cable-lengths from the shore and swinging to the tide, that the canoes were all round her, and that a chap in white was leaning over her rail.

“Looks like Clayton,” said he. “Now he’s left the rail, and they’re swinging out a boat. He’s comin’ ashore. Now he’s in the boat. Yes, that’s him sure enough; know him anywhere by the way he carries himself, crawled over into the boat like a cat, he did. Yes, it’s him; I can see his face now, all but his b’iled gooseberry eyes. Comin’ ashore, are you? Well, I’ll be there to meet you.”

He came swarming down only to be received into the arms of Davis, that is to say, Reason.

“Coming on for night I don’t say no,” said Davis; “we may be able to take the ship and get out with her, but there’s no use in a free fight on the beach in the broad light of day with all his boat crew to back him. I’ve got an idea—it’s coming into my head bit by bit—and it’s this, the crew know us.”