Then had come that cry for help from the dark waters off the wharf’s end, and Tommy’s reckless dive over the high wooden side, to rescue a drowning sailor. As was to be expected, Tommy had needed help himself, before he was safely ashore again with his unconscious burden, and the man who had come running at Lis’s and her frightened cries was the very man who now stood before them in his tattered garb, and bushy, matted hair and beard—Captain Caleb Joy of the _Narwhal_, who had set sail the following morning on a three-year whaling cruise to the Pacific. Yet now, here—Erica rubbed her eyes dazedly and looked again. Here was that same Captain Joy shaking hands fervently with her father, on this deserted, island beach, and certainly appearing quite as dumfounded as themselves over the unexpected meeting. She moved nearer and held out her own small hand warmly. “It took me two or three good long looks to know you,” she admitted, frankly. “But”—she broke off as a new thought struck her with a blaze of illumination. “Why—why, Captain Joy, I believe _you’ve_ been shipwrecked, too!” she gasped. Captain Joy closed his horny fingers very gently over the slim, eager ones thrust into them, and nodded emphatically. “So it’s little Ricky Folger!” he said. “Well, well, missy! But you’ve hit it square on the head. Shipwrecked I’ve been here on this blessed island, with eight o’ my crew, these past eight months.” He turned back to Captain Eric and continued his tale, the rest of the group crowding nearer to listen. “We sailed, as Lister here and Ricky will remember, in October of last year, on a whalin’ v’yage that we cal’lated would last for ‘bout a three-year stretch. Well, we run head-on into a storm a hundred or so miles off this place—storms and hurricanes are plenty in these waters, as you found out for yourselves, sir, last night.” He nodded wisely toward the _Sea Gull_ across the little bay, and Captain Eric nodded agreement.