“If I did muffle the oars it was for a good reason.  I wanted to slip past a cove where some native craft were moored.  That was common prudence in such a small boat, and not armed—­as I am.  I saw you right enough, but I had no intention to startle anybody.  Take my word for it.”

“I wish you had gone somewhere else,” growled Shaw.  “I hate to be put in the wrong through accident and untruthfulness—­there!  Here’s my old man calling me—­”

He left the cabin hurriedly and soon afterward Lingard came down, and sat again facing Carter across the table.  His face was grave but resolute.

“We shall get the breeze directly,” he said.

“Then, sir,” said Carter, getting up, “if you will give me back that letter I shall go on cruising about here to speak some other ship.  I trust you will report us wherever you are going.”

“I am going to the yacht and I shall keep the letter,” answered Lingard with decision.  “I know exactly where she is, and I must go to the rescue of those people.  It’s most fortunate you’ve fallen in with me, Mr. Carter.  Fortunate for them and fortunate for me,” he added in a lower tone.

“Yes,” drawled Carter, reflectively.  “There may be a tidy bit of salvage money if you should get the vessel off, but I don’t think you can do much.  I had better stay out here and try to speak some gunboat—­”

“You must come back to your ship with me,” said Lingard, authoritatively.  “Never mind the gunboats.”

“That wouldn’t be carrying out my orders,” argued Carter.  “I’ve got to speak a homeward-bound ship or a man-of-war—­that’s plain enough.  I am not anxious to knock about for days in an open boat, but—­let me fill my fresh-water breaker, Captain, and I will be off.”

“Nonsense,” said Lingard, sharply.  “You’ve got to come with me to show the place and—­and help.  I’ll take your boat in tow.”

Carter did not seem convinced.  Lingard laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Look here, young fellow.  I am Tom Lingard and there’s not a white man among these islands, and very few natives, that have not heard of me.  My luck brought you into my ship—­and now I’ve got you, you must stay.  You must!”

The last “must” burst out loud and sharp like a pistol-shot.  Carter stepped back.

“Do you mean you would keep me by force?” he asked, startled.

“Force,” repeated Lingard.  “It rests with you.  I cannot let you speak any vessel.  Your yacht has gone ashore in a most inconvenient place—­for me; and with your boats sent off here and there, you would bring every infernal gunboat buzzing to a spot that was as quiet and retired as the heart of man could wish.  You stranding just on that spot of the whole coast was my bad luck.  And that I could not help.  You coming upon me like this is my good luck.  And that I hold!”

He dropped his clenched fist, big and muscular, in the light of the lamp on the black cloth, amongst the glitter of glasses, with the strong fingers closed tight upon the firm flesh of the palm.  He left it there for a moment as if showing Carter that luck he was going to hold.  And he went on: