Skilfully Tari ran her in, and then waited just outside the broken water for a good opportunity. Picking out the last of three big waves, he signed to Jim and Broncho to give way, and off went the whaleboat, swooping forward on the crest of the roller. Straight as an arrow Tari kept her head, and the boat danced along without shipping more than a cupful or two of water; then, judging his time to a nicety, the Kanaka backed her off as the breaker toppled and fell crashing; again, with wild cries of encouragement, he bade them pull, and the boat was hurled towards the beach in the midst of a raging mass of foam, which kept Jack busy baling as it boiled around and lipped in over the gunwale. The beach shelved gradually, and the whaleboat was carried far up it before the undertow began to take hold. At a word from Tari, all hands leaped overboard, and, helped by the big stranger, who had run into the surf to their aid, they ran the boat high and dry. Weakened and cramped by their long spell of hardships and privations since leaving the _Ocmulgee_, this last effort used up every remaining ounce of strength, and utterly exhausted, the castaways threw themselves full length upon the sand and lay there. Before them stood the stranger, tall and muscular. His burly figure and square, resolute face were those of that unmistakable type, the British bluejacket, and he hardly required the bell-bottomed navy trousers to identify him. Virile strength, trained and disciplined to a fine perfection, showed in every line of his active form. "You're on British soil, lads," he began, squatting down beside the worn-out boat's crew, and he jerked his thumb up at the small flag straining in the strong breeze from the top of the bare palm. They now perceived it to be a very minute Union Jack, faded and somewhat ragged. "This island is called H.M.S. _Dido_," he went on. "I named her after the gunboat I belong to. My name's Bill Benson, bosun's mate. I fell overboard about a month back. Got picked up by that black-'arted scoundrel 'Awksley, of the _Black Adder_." At these words, Jack, who was listening indifferently, suddenly leant forward to attention with a strange new look on his tired face; noticing which the man exclaimed, "Know him, governor?" "I do," returned Jack slowly, with a deep note of sternness in his voice. "Know no good, I'll be bound; but he's ashore here somewheres. His blighted crew o' yellow-skinned beachcombers got fed up with him, an' they just popped the three of us ashore 'ere--marooned us, as they say." "Who was the third, do you say?" broke in Jack again, a strange excitement in his eyes.