time and rhythm with his thoughts, which ever flew back to the
original of the photograph he had stolen and lost. His one brief meeting
with Miss Sheldon in the flesh had enabled him to judge the status of
the photographer, and the artist was placed very low in the scale of his
craft. The living original of that picture could never be done justice
to on a photographic plate, in the skipper's opinion.

"This is no place for such a woman," he soliloquized. Then the hotel
scene in Surabaya recurred to him, and his teeth clicked sharply. "And
such a flower shan't wither in filthy paws like Leyden's!" he spoke
aloud.

He trudged on, wondering if he had lost his way, for as yet there was no
indication of a clearing or any cultivation that must surely mark the
habitation of white people in a foreign land. As he gazed around at the
matted verdure, his ears caught a strange sound which was yet not
utterly strange. It was a roaring, throaty voice, such as is only
developed in the stress of storm and thundering canvas. It was raised in
raucous song:

'Arf a ton o' white paint, 'arf a ton o' black,
'Arf a ton o' 'nammellers, an' paint pots in th' rack.
Ship's a bloomin' paint shop, a sailor's got no show;
So sink th' blarsted Navy, an' ol' Admiral Furbelow!

The song was cut off abruptly as the singer tore through a mat of vines
and stepped out right in front of Barry.

"Ahoy! And who 'm you in this fine black man's country?"

The man stood on widespread, deeply bowed legs, quizzically regarding
Barry. Then a pair of sea-blue eyes twinkled, and a salt-toughened face
wrinkled in a grin.

"Holystones an' _sujee_! You 'm a sailorman, ain't you? Is there a real
ship in this river o' mud at last? Not one o' them bamboo an'
string-tied proas, or sich?"

Barry returned the fellow's quizzical gaze, and in spite of his recent
thoughts, he had to grin. Partially clad in the remnants of a navy
working rig--tattered canvas jumper and wide trousers--the man looked
the embodiment of one of Neptune's hoariest veterans. Where the skin
showed through his rags it was tattooed blue and red in the numerous
designs beloved of old-time seamen. A great ship sailed turbulently
across his massive chest, her sails and rigging blackened ludicrously by
the mat of close-curled hair that flourished on the human background.
The rising sun of Japan blazed above her trucks, on the wearer's
treelike neck; weird serpents and smoke-b