"Oh, they know we're here," said the Captain, chuckling again. "See that boat, Mr. Beard? Shouldn't be surprised if Dr. Gentian was aboard her." His throat suddenly became a leather trumpet. "_Aye, Mister Mate?_" he roared. He turned away. The black, struggling bug in the waves jumped into a longboat as Andrew put the glass to his eye again. He could see the sweat start on the backs of the eight negro rowers as their oars rose and fell in thrashing dumb-show. But the figure in the stern-sheets was what held his gaze--if it could be Doctor Gentian. He had expected such a different personage. A Scotch army-surgeon turned planter suggested, somehow, a tall, rawboned, iron-mouthed dragoon in patched kilts and a palmetto hat. This spruce, erect little figure with the chin and eyes of Cæsar was dressed in black superfine broadcloth, with Mechlin ruffles at the throat and wrists. His wig was freshly powdered, his gold-laced hat cocked in the fine extreme of fashion--even Lucius, Andrew thought, might have been a little awed by the sombre perfection of his attire. Andrew suddenly realized the incongruity of his own apparel with a start. He had dressed hastily, in the clothes he had worn during most of the voyage. After one glance through the spyglass at his host, the glazed hat borrowed from a sailor on his own head, the loose shirt and wide breeches he had thought so aptly nautical, made him feel as if he had strolled into White's in London painted like a Seneca chief. He cast a wild glance around him, but it was too late. They were lowering the Jacob's ladder already. In a moment Dr. Gentian would be aboard. "Ahoy, Pride of the Colonies!" came a sharp clear voice from the water. "Ahoy, Captain Stout!" "Ahoy sir!" called the Captain, "Stand by the ladder for Dr. Gentian, you sons of sweeps, or by God I'll--We've a passenger aboard for ye, Doctor!" The spruce little Cæsar in black broadcloth called back something that the wind blew away. Then he was coming up the Jacob's ladder as nimbly as a fly. Andrew shivered with annoyance and embarrassment. Why hadn't the Captain told him the Doctor was like this? "Mr. Beard?" said the man whom Andrew had visualized as a kilted dragoon. There was a fresh breeze blowing, but not a drop of spray seemed to have spotted his black silk stockings and he stepped across the spattered deck with the quick daintiness of a cat. "Your obliged, obedient servant, Mr. Beard." A ring winked on his outstretched hand. "Nay, yours, sir," said Andrew, diffidently, and stood staring. He liked Dr. Gentian at first sight--there was something very merry about his mouth. Moreover, he had obviously taken in Andrew's strange attire at one rapid glance, and yet the sight had not perceptibly increased his merriment. Captain Stout came bumbling up in a sort of respectful fury.