“Hard and fast on middling soft mud—­I should think about sixty miles from here.  We are the second boat sent off for assistance.  We parted company with the other on Tuesday.  She must have passed to the northward of you to-day.  The chief officer is in her with orders to make for Singapore.  I am second, and was sent off toward the Straits here on the chance of falling in with some ship.  I have a letter from the owner.  Our gentry are tired of being stuck in the mud and wish for assistance.”

“What assistance did you expect to find down here?”

“The letter will tell you that.  May I ask, Captain, for a little water for the chaps in my boat?  And I myself would thank you for a drink.  We haven’t had a mouthful since this afternoon.  Our breaker leaked out somehow.”

“See to it, Mr. Shaw,” said Lingard.  “Come down the cabin, Mr.—­”

“Carter is my name.”

“Ah!  Mr. Carter.  Come down, come down,” went on Lingard, leading the way down the cabin stairs.

The steward had lighted the swinging lamp, and had put a decanter and bottles on the table.  The cuddy looked cheerful, painted white, with gold mouldings round the panels.  Opposite the curtained recess of the stern windows there was a sideboard with a marble top, and, above it, a looking-glass in a gilt frame.  The semicircular couch round the stern had cushions of crimson plush.  The table was covered with a black Indian tablecloth embroidered in vivid colours.  Between the beams of the poop-deck were fitted racks for muskets, the barrels of which glinted in the light.  There were twenty-four of them between the four beams.  As many sword-bayonets of an old pattern encircled the polished teakwood of the rudder-casing with a double belt of brass and steel.  All the doors of the state-rooms had been taken off the hinges and only curtains closed the doorways.  They seemed to be made of yellow Chinese silk, and fluttered all together, the four of them, as the two men entered the cuddy.

Carter took in all at a glance, but his eyes were arrested by a circular shield hung slanting above the brass hilts of the bayonets.  On its red field, in relief and brightly gilt, was represented a sheaf of conventional thunderbolts darting down the middle between the two capitals T. L. Lingard examined his guest curiously.  He saw a young man, but looking still more youthful, with a boyish smooth face much sunburnt, twinkling blue eyes, fair hair and a slight moustache.  He noticed his arrested gaze.

“Ah, you’re looking at that thing.  It’s a present from the builder of this brig.  The best man that ever launched a craft.  It’s supposed to be the ship’s name between my initials—­flash of lightning—­d’you see?  The brig’s name is Lightning and mine is Lingard.”

“Very pretty thing that:  shows the cabin off well,” murmured Carter, politely.

They drank, nodding at each other, and sat down.

“Now for the letter,” said Lingard.