Meanwhile, Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, and Captain Southern were taking the strong, double marine glasses in turn to inspect the boat which was working its way through the surf toward the _Marathon_. The four men at the oars were low-caste Hindus. They would not have been doing this kind of work otherwise. They were picturesque-looking rascals. Naked to their waists, their brown skin glistened in the sunlight like the top of a German loaf. Each wore the white turban that is part of the costume of every Hindu, and on the wrists of some of them could be seen heavy brass rings. In the stern of the boat--which was a wide, heavy craft, well able to stand the tossing of the surf and to make good time before the steady pulling of the oarsmen--stood a tall native who looked very different from the others. This man wore a turban like the oarsmen, but there was a jewel fastened in the front of the folds of snowy cloth that glistened like the lens of a powerful flash lamp. While it was not easy to make out his feature at that distance, Nick Carter saw, with admiration, that the limbs were lean and muscular, and that every movement of the lithe brown body indicated strength and activity. That this man in the stern was in command could be told in more ways than one. He carried in his right hand a long lance, or spear, such as is used by some of the Indian cavalry regiments, but without the pennon which is generally attached. Occasionally he emphasized his orders to the crew by giving one or other of them a rap across the bare shoulders with the staff of the spear, always accompanying it with a roaring command. Nick told this from the opening of his mouth, although he could not hear the sound. For a few minutes longer Nick Carter stared through the binocular glass at the boat and its gigantic commander, while the captain and Jefferson Arnold talked apart. Suddenly the big Hindu caused his boat to swing around as it approached the ship, and he waved a hand frantically at the rail where Captain, the bloodhound, had poked out his nose and was barking and whimpering alternately in recognition. “Say, chief!” roared Patsy, looking up to Nick Carter. “That big busher knows you and Captain, too. Look at him.” “Of course he knows the chief,” put in Chick, who had begun to make signs to the Hindu. “He knows me, too. We’ve been in this part of the world before.” “Well, who is he, anyhow?” asked Patsy. “He is a chief in the hill country, and he calls himself Jai Singh.” “Calls himself?” repeated Patsy. “Isn’t that his real name?” “Why, yes. I suppose it is. But there was a famous rajah named Jai Singh, who lived about two hundred years ago, and who built observatories at Jaipur and Delhi. The remains of them are still in existence, and astronomers say they were magnificent structures for that time, and would be even in this day.” “Gee! Where did you get on to all that?” asked Patsy, open-mouthed. “You’re a wonder, Chick.”