The beach shelved gradually, and the whaleboat was carried far up it before the undertow began to take hold.
At a word from Tari, all hands leaped overboard, and, helped by the big stranger, who had run into the surf to their aid, they ran the boat high and dry.
Weakened and cramped by their long spell of hardships and privations since leaving the Ocmulgee, this last effort used up every remaining ounce of strength, and utterly exhausted, the castaways threw themselves full length upon the sand and lay there.
Before them stood the stranger, tall and muscular. His burly figure and square, resolute face were those of that unmistakable type, the British bluejacket, and he hardly required the bell-bottomed navy trousers to identify him.
Virile strength, trained and disciplined to a fine perfection, showed in every line of his active form.
"You're on British soil, lads," he began, squatting down beside the worn-out boat's crew, and he jerked his thumb up at the small flag straining in the strong breeze from the top of the bare palm.
They now perceived it to be a very minute Union Jack, faded and somewhat ragged.
"This island is called H.M.S. Dido," he went on. "I named her after the gunboat I belong to. My name's Bill Benson, bosun's mate. I fell overboard about a month back. Got picked up by that black-'arted scoundrel 'Awksley, of the Black Adder."
At these words, Jack, who was listening indifferently, suddenly leant forward to attention with a strange new look on his tired face; noticing which the man exclaimed,
"Know him, governor?"