kind.--Yours, CHARLES Hayling."

"You see why they have left the matter to us, Carteret. You were on the
_Flycatcher_ five years ago, and the Admiral thinks you may be able to
identify this fellow. Of course Barcom is not his name."

Mr. Carteret at this moment was very busy with the chart, over which he
bent his head a moment, and then turned sharply to the man at the wheel,
who was not out of earshot.

"Keep your course," he said sharply; "why don't you attend to your
steering!" Then he turned to the commander: "I beg your pardon, sir; you
were saying?----"

"I was saying that you ought to remember such an incident as a sergeant
of marines deserting from the _Flycatcher_ when she was down here five
years ago."

"I do remember it. The man's name was Charles Parker."

"Is that the man?" And Arness handed him a photograph of a man dressed
in white ducks and a straw hat, evidently taken by an amateur.

Carteret looked at the photograph for fully a couple of minutes before
he answered slowly--

"No, I don't think that this is the man."

A few hours later the _Spitfire_ had steamed in close to the land, and
a boat was lowered. In this boat were Lieutenant Carteret, a sergeant of
marines, with three privates and half a dozen bluejackets.

"I have force enough to take a boat-load of deserters," remarked the
lieutenant to his commander, as he descended the poop ladder on his way
to the boat.

Commander Arness laughed. "Oh, well, you know the natives might take
it into their heads to resist his arrest. But be careful what you are
doing: make perfectly sure that he _is_ the man. You don't know what
complications might arise if we carried off the wrong person."

* * * * *

The moment the boat touched the shore, she was surrounded by a crowd
of friendly, brown-skinned islanders, who seemed delighted to see the
strangers.

"Any one of you fellows speak English?" asked Mr. Carteret

"Yes, sir," and a big, burly fellow with a fine open countenance
advanced to the officer. "Me speak English, and plenty more men here
speak it, too. What you want, sir?"

"Any white men living here?" asked Carteret quietly.

"Oh, yes--one, a very good man; his name is Joajai" [George].

"Take me to his house," said the officer. "I want to see him."

In a few minutes Mr. Carteret and his marines were being conducted up
a steep and rugged path towards the white trader's house, which was
situated quite apart from the native vil