Bithery handed me the telescope, which I levelled at the approaching surf-boat. Already the quaint figure of my old friend was clearly distinguishable in his queer habiliments, and I could see him scrutinizing the brig with the aid of a binocular. As the boat came nearer, I leaped on to the rail and stood holding on by a backstay and waving my cap--or rather Jobling’s. He recognised me almost at once, for I saw him stand up and wave his hat in response, sitting down again with some suddenness as the boat gave a lurch. As the surf-boat swept alongside he made a snatch at the ladder, and was on deck in a twinkling, fairly falling into my arms as he came over the rail. “Now God be praised that I have been spared to see this day!” he exclaimed, in a voice that shook with agitation, “this blessed day that I had ceased to hope for.” He stood, holding both my hands, while the tears chased one another down his sunken cheeks, though his face beamed with delight. As for me, I was too much affected by the old man’s emotion and my own to be able to speak, until the skipper created a welcome diversion by loudly stigmatising the by-standing deck hands as “a pack of grinning apes,” and hustling them away forward. “How is Isabel?” I asked, when I had recovered my composure a little. “She is well, my dear boy, very well, thank God. Ah! and that reminds me; she must share our happiness at once. Captain, would you kindly fire the gun twice? It was to be the signal. We saw the brig come in all gay with flags, and I promised, if she brought good news, we would fire the gun once, and if our dear friend was on board, we would fire it twice. She is on the beach with the telescope now.” Twice the little gun sang out its joyful note, and then Captain Bithery executed a diplomatic move, the brilliancy of which I have never ceased to admire. “Look here, Englefield,” said he, “there is no need for you to stay here while I am pitching Pereira the yarn and letting him finger the gold. Yes, my friend, gold; good, yellow gold by the hundredweight; you cut ashore, and send the boat back for us, and tell Miss Pereira that we are all coming to breakfast.” I glanced at my old friend to see how he took the proposal, and as he beamed approvingly, I lost no time, but dropped into the boat forthwith. “Shove off,” I said to the boatswain, as I took my seat in the Madeira chair that was lashed to the thwart; and as the big boat sheered off, I caught a glimpse of Jobling’s face looking over the bulwark, wistfully regarding his best drill suit as it moved shoreward. The canoe-men glanced at me curiously as we went along, having apparently gleaned some particulars from the natives on board, and presently they broke out into the classical Gold Coast boat song, “White man cummygain”--which was so apt to the circumstances, that I would have rewarded them with a substantial “dash,” but Jobling’s pockets were empty.