"Little doubt about that. She must have some urgent cause for coming out thus far to us," remarked Murray. "Lower the gig, Mr Higson, and go and meet her," he added immediately afterwards. "The people in the boat are evidently tired with their long pull, and make but slow progress." The gig's crew called away--she was lowered, and Higson pulled off towards the approaching boat. Meantime, Murray walked the deck with impatient steps. Several times he stopped, and raised his glass to his eye, watching her eagerly. At length he saw that the gig had reached her. The two boats were alongside each other for a minute, and then the gig came rowing rapidly back, leaving the other behind. Murray watched her. "There must be something of importance to make Higson hurry back at that rate," he said to himself. "He has brought the people from the boat, I see." As the gig drew nearer, he saw Higson stand up and wave his handkerchief. In a few minutes more she was near enough for him to distinguish those in her. "Is it possible, or do my eyes deceive me?" he exclaimed. "There's a lad in a midshipman's uniform. If he is not Gerald Desmond, he is wonderfully like him." "There can be little doubt who he is, sir," said Green, who was standing near his commander. "If that is not Desmond I'm a Dutchman, and the man sitting just abaft the stroke-oar is Dick Needham, who went with the youngsters in the drogher. As they are safe, it is to be hoped the rest escaped, too. I've often heard that midshipmen have as many lives as cats." "I trust, indeed, that all have been saved," said Murray, in a grave tone. He felt too anxious to joke with Jos just then. The gig was soon alongside, and Gerald Desmond, looking pale and exhausted, was lifted on deck; Needham, with some help, managing to follow him. "I am truly thankful to see you, Desmond," said Murray, as he took the hand of the young midshipman, who was being carried aft in the arms of two of the sailors. "Have Tom and Archy also been saved?" Gerald tried to reply, but no sound came from his parched throat. He had barely strength to point with a finger to his lips. Needham was in but little better plight, though he managed to murmur, "water--water." Several cans-full were instantly brought by eager hands. "Stop, lads, you'll suffocate the poor fellows if you pour all that water down their throats!" exclaimed McTavish, the Assistant Surgeon of the corvette, who had been lent to the _Supplejack_. "Just a wine-glassful at a time, with a few drops of brandy in it, will be the best thing for them."