don't seem to like them, sir?'

'So Captain Funkal seems to imply,' said Bude, and, taking the ropes,
with Logan beside him, while the _Pendragon_ lay to, he steered the boat
towards the _George Washington_.

The captain welcomed them on deck in a scene of unusual character. He
himself had a revolver in one hand, and a belaying pin in the other; he
had been quelling, by the tranquillising methods of Captain Kettle, a
mutiny caused by the terror of the crew. The sailors had attempted to
leap overboard in the alarm caused by the invasion of the Berbalangs.

'You will excuse my friend and myself for not being in evening dress,
during a visit at this hour,' said Bude in the silkiest of tones.

'Glad to see you shipshape, gentlemen,' answered the American mariner.
'My dudes of professors were prancing round in Tuxedos and Prince Alberts
when the darned fire-flies came aboard.'

Bude bowed. Study of Miss McCabe had taught him that Tuxedos and Prince
Alberts mean evening dress and frock-coats.

'Did _your_ men have fits?' asked the captain.

'My captain, Captain Hardy, made a scientific inquiry about the--insects,'
said Bude. 'The crew showed no emotion.'

'I guess our fire-bugs were more on business than yours,' said Captain
Funkal; 'they've wrecked the exhibits, and killed the darkeys with
fright: except two, and _they_ were exhibits themselves. Will you honour
me by stepping into my cabin, gentlemen. I am glad to see sane white men
to-night.'

Bude and Logan followed him through a scene of melancholy interest.
Beside the mast, within a shattered palisade, lay huddled the vast corpse
of the Mylodon of Patagonia, couchant amidst his fodder of chopped hay.
The expression of the huge animal was placid and urbane in death. He was
the victim of the ceaseless curiosity of science. Two of the five-horned
antelope giraffes of Central Africa lay in a confused heap of horns and
hoofs. Beside an immense tank couched a figure in evening dress,
swearing in a subdued tone. Logan recognised Professor Potter. He
gently laid his hand on the Professor's shoulder. The Scottish savant
looked up:

'It is a dommed mismanaged affair,' he said. 'I could have brought the
poor beast safe enough from the Clyde to New York, but the Americans made
me harl him round by yon island of camstairy deevils,' and he shook his
fist in the direction of Cagayan Sulu.

'What had you got?' asked Logan.

'The _Beathach na Loch na bheiste_,