in the tank on the upper
deck. Calling to the sailor to get the shore-boat ready, the Commodore
scooped up the fallen flour and cast it again on the fire. Distracted
Lady Fairweather suddenly rushed to her cabin and back again, and she
too wildly cast a shower of something white into the blaze. Then she
stood pale and speechless, all unconscious of the dainty, empty pink
box clasped in both hands, and of her own heroism in sacrificing her
complexion to save the houseboat. As it turned out, we had no need to
row ashore. With little or nothing to account for it, except the
perversity of gasoline, or perhaps the contents of the little pink box,
the flames with a final flare went out.

Then we took account of the situation. Flour was everywhere. Nautica
had eyebrows and hair singed, though she found that out only when she
got the flour off. It was hard to tell what was the matter with the
Commodore, or to take his troubles seriously. He had slightly scorched
hands of course. But then one forgot them in looking at his expressive
face made out of flour and soot, and in watching him spill breakfast
food and tapioca when he walked.

We never knew how the fire came to start, any more than how it came to
go out. When fairly presentable again, we went up on the upper deck to
find a cool place under the awning.

Evidently, we were adapting ourselves promptly to the ways of the
country. Having fires seems to have been one of the chief diversions in
old James Towne, and we had no sooner got to the island than we fell in
with the custom. It was not a good custom. Even with the fire out we
were in trouble; for Gadabout hadn't a piece of bread to her name, and
we had thrown on the fire the last bit of flour aboard. We were falling
in with more than one of the ways of the colonists--it was fire and
famine too.

The Commodore suggested that we send a message to the owner of the
island praying that a "Supply" be despatched to the starving new
colonists. But Nautica held that such an appeal should be made in
person; that the Commodore, like a true Captain John Smith, should
start out himself to get food for his famishing little colony.

Thus put upon his mettle, the Commodore, trailed by the sailor with his
basket, soon set off along the island road. Upon reaching the
neighbourhood of the church ruins he met an old negro.

"Mornin', suh." And the shapeless hat came off in a way that told that
this was a survival of the old school.