Twenty of them--familiar, all, to Jerry--were from Meringe; thirty of them came from the Bay of a Thousand Ships, in the Russell Isles; and the remaining twelve were from Pennduffryn on the east coast of Guadalcanar.

In addition to these--and they were all on deck, chattering and piping in queer, almost elfish, falsetto voices--were the two white men, Captain Van Horn and his Danish mate, Borckman, making a total of seventy-nine souls.
"Thought your heart 'd failed you at the last moment," was Captain Van Horn's greeting, a quick pleasure light glowing into his eyes as they noted Jerry.
"It was sure near to doin' it," Tom Haggin answered.

"It's only for you I'd a done it, annyways.

Jerry's the best of the litter, barrin' Michael, of course, the two of them bein' all that's left and no better than them that was lost.

Now that Kathleen was a sweet dog, the spit of Biddy if she'd lived .-- Here, take 'm." With a jerk of abruptness, he deposited Jerry in Van Horn's arms and turned away along the deck.
"An' if bad luck comes to him I'll never forgive you, Skipper," he flung roughly over his shoulder.
"They'll have to take my head first," the skipper chuckled.
"An' not unlikely, my brave laddy buck," Haggin growled.