er. Out from the
oval of the mount a sweet girlish face smiled at him. It was the face
of a woman grown, yet retaining the utter innocence and trust of a girl.
The picture had been taken in a studio, the Sumarang photographer's name
was stamped on the card, and Barry felt a wave of anger creeping over
him at the thought that Leyden could get such a picture. Then he thought
it possible that the picture had been bought; for native photographers
are not beyond taking money for pictures they have no right to sell; and
the thought pleased him. He turned the card over, and was again absurdly
pleased to find no signature on the back.

"That's it!" he muttered. "She didn't give him this." He smiled back at
the charming face and fancied it smiled up at him. Such a vision of
fresh, wholesome loveliness had never crossed his horizon before. The
level brows shaded eyes that looked straight out at him, fearless,
unconcealing; the richly curved lips were parted in a dazzling
expression of happiness. Barry gladdened at the sight, then frowned at
the recollection of the discussion at Leyden's table. Such frank,
unsophisticated loveliness was tender prey for the likes of Leyden.

"Not if I know it, he won't!" the skipper muttered under his breath. He
slipped the picture into his pocket and stepped out on deck, taking in
every detail of ship and crew that came into his line of sight.

In the strengthening sunlight of rising morning the brigantine would not
have appealed very strongly to a landsman, or even to a yachtsman. As
Barry discovered later, at breakfast, Little was sadly disappointed at
the lack of polished brass-work, the bareness of the paint, the
all-round creakiness of the ancient fabric. But to a seaman's eye the
absence of brass meant a pleasing lack of irritating work on
ornamentation; the worn paint showed sound timber beneath; there was
just enough creakiness to indicate an amount of free play that made for
pliability and strength.

From forward came the musical swish of brooms and water as the
bare-legged watch scrubbed decks. A burly Hollander stood on the spare
topmast lying in the port scuppers, one leg crooked over the bulwark
rail, scooping water from the ocean with a draw-bucket and discharging
it with consummate skill among the brown legs of the scrubbers.

Barry took notice of the big Dutchman, receiving an impression of quiet,
ponderous efficiency that was yet strangely suggestive of a
velvet-covered steel