He felt light.  He had the sensation of being whirled high in the midst of an uproar and as powerless as a feather in a hurricane.  He shuddered profoundly.  His arms hung down, and he stood before the table staring like a man overcome by some fatal intelligence.

Shaw, going into the waist to receive what he thought was one of the brig’s boats, came against Carter making his way aft hurriedly.

“Hullo!  Is it you again?” he said, swiftly, barring the way.

“I come from the yacht,” began Carter with some impatience.

“Where else could you come from?” said Shaw.  “And what might you want now?”

“I want to see your skipper.”

“Well, you can’t,” declared Shaw, viciously.  “He’s turned in for the night.”

“He expects me,” said Carter, stamping his foot.  “I’ve got to tell him what happened.”

“Don’t you fret yourself, young man,” said Shaw in a superior manner; “he knows all about it.”

They stood suddenly silent in the dark.  Carter seemed at a loss what to do.  Shaw, though surprised by it, enjoyed the effect he had produced.

“Damn me, if I did not think so,” murmured Carter to himself; then drawling coolly asked—­“And perhaps you know, too?”

“What do you think?  Think I am a dummy here?  I ain’t mate of this brig for nothing.”

“No, you are not,” said Carter with a certain bitterness of tone.  “People do all kinds of queer things for a living, and I am not particular myself, but I would think twice before taking your billet.”

“What?  What do you in-si-nu-ate.  My billet?  You ain’t fit for it, you yacht-swabbing brass-buttoned imposter.”

“What’s this?  Any of our boats back?” asked Lingard from the poop.  “Let the seacannie in charge come to me at once.”

“There’s only a message from the yacht,” began Shaw, deliberately.

“Yacht!  Get the deck lamps along here in the waist!  See the ladder lowered.  Bear a hand, serang!  Mr. Shaw!  Burn the flare up aft.  Two of them!  Give light to the yacht’s boats that will be coming alongside.  Steward!  Where’s that steward?  Turn him out then.”

Bare feet began to patter all round Carter.  Shadows glided swiftly.

“Are these flares coming?  Where’s the quartermaster on duty?” shouted Lingard in English and Malay.  “This way, come here!  Put it on a rocket stick—­can’t you?  Hold over the side—­thus!  Stand by with the lines for the boats forward there.  Mr. Shaw—­we want more light!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” called out Shaw, but he did not move, as if dazed by the vehemence of his commander.

“That’s what we want,” muttered Carter under his breath.  “Imposter!  What do you call yourself?” he said half aloud to Shaw.

The ruddy glare of the flares disclosed Lingard from head to foot, standing at the break of the poop.  His head was bare, his face, crudely lighted, had a fierce and changing expression in the sway of flames.