ng, as the wind
plays through the thin hair on the top of his head, and mutters to
himself--

"Ha! ha! Time will show."

Sail on, O "Harnessed Mule." You carry a weighty freight inside you.
Who will reach the goal first?

Sub-Chapter V.

THE WRECK OF THE "HARNESSED MULE."

Latitude 80 degrees 25 minutes, longitude 4 degrees 6 minutes--a hot,
breathless day. The "Harnessed Mule" glides swiftly over the unruffled
blue. The crew loll about, listening to the babbling of the boiling
ocean, and now and then lazily extinguishing the flames which break up
from the tropically heated planks. It is a typical Pacific day.

The stowaway in the forward hold lies prone, conning his map, and
marking the gradual approach of the "Harnessed Mule" to the red cross
marked there. Frequently he is compelled to raise himself into a
sitting position to give vent to the merriment which possesses him.

"This is better than Latin prose," says he to himself. "How jolly I
feel!"

Could he but have guessed that through an adjoining crack another figure
was drinking in every word he uttered, and taking it down in official
shorthand, he would have spoken in less audible tones!

Yes. The second stowaway is Solomon Smellie, of Scotland Yard, and he
has the plaster cast in his pocket.

"This must be about the spot," says Sep, comparing his chart with the
figures on the mariner's compass. "Here goes."

Two vigorous turns of the gimlet, and the "Harnessed Mule" rears on her
beam ends, and, with one stupendous lurch, goes to the bottom.

"That's all right," says Sep, as he hauls himself to the summit of a
mountain of naked rock, which rises sheer out of the sea on all sides to
a height of a thousand feet.

The words are scarcely out of his mouth when his face turns livid, and
he trembles violently from head to foot, as he perceives standing before
him Solomon Smellie, the detective of Scotland Yard.

Sub-Chapter VI.

THE RENCONTRE.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," says Solomon.

"Delighted, I'm sure," says Septimus, craftily.

Then they talk of the weather, eyeing one another like practised fencers
in a death struggle.

"Ha! ha!" thinks Sep; "he has heard of the sunken doubloons."

"Ha! ha!" thinks Solomon. "If he only knew I had that plaster cast in
my pocket!"

"Are you making a long stay here?" says the former naively.

"Depends," is the dark, laconic reply.

"Sorry I must leave you for a little," says Sep. "An