when he had ordered me to let go
my grip of the Kanaka in the f'c'stle, if he was afraid that any
disagreement between me and the knife-thrower would start trouble with
the crew, but from the way he hazed the niggers during the storm I was
convinced that it was not through any fear of them that he ordered me to
leave my assailant alone. The conviction did not increase my love for
him. As I viewed the happening he was inclined to shield the big brute
who threw the knife simply because the offence did not appear to be one
that merited punishment, and this view was not pleasing to my nerves.

It was on the second day of the storm that a little incident happened
which is worth mentioning. Toni, the small Fijian who had chanted the
song of Black Fernando's hell, was caught by a huge wave and pounded
hard against the cabin. The mad turmoil of water swept his nearly
lifeless form into the scuppers, but before another comber could snatch
him overboard, I managed to reach his side and drag him into safety.

I forgot the incident in the whirl of happenings that followed, but the
Fijian had a longer memory. Late that afternoon he was holding the wheel
with Soma, the big Kanaka who had jerked the knife at me, and as I
stopped to peer at the binnacle he beckoned me toward him.

"That was me that sing," he shrieked, as I put down my head. "I tell
damn big lie you an' Miss Herndon."

"Why?" I asked, amused at the peculiar manner in which he tried to
express his gratitude for the rescue of the morning.

"Big Jacky tell me not say anything," he screamed. "He tell it to me one
big secret all that talk about waterfall. Tell me not to tell any one.
You know why?"

I glanced at Soma and found that he was straining his ears to catch the
words the other was shrieking, and as I was more than suspicious of him,
I promptly closed the conversation.

"I'll see you in the morning," I roared.

The Fijian nodded and I fought my way forward, wondering as I clung to
the rigging what the pupil of the Maori had to tell me about the song.

The wind had ceased somewhat on the morning of the third day, but the
snaky rollers were still racing after the flying yacht. A watery sun
peeped out from between the driving cloud masses, the rays glinting
through the heads of the waves that curled menacingly as the battered
yacht drove through them.

Newmarch hailed me from the poop when I came on deck, and there was a
peculiar look upon his scrawny feature