en to think of him in the future, I preferred
to remember him as at the moment of our first strange acquaintance.

BOOK II

_The dotted cays,
With their little trees,
Lie all about on the crystal floor;
Nothing but beauty--
Far off is duty,
Far off the folk of the busy shore._

_The mangroves stride
In the coloured tide,
With leafy crests that will soon be isles;
And all is lonely--
White sea-sand only,
Angel-pure for untrodden miles._

_In sunny bays
The young shark plays,
Among the ripples and nets of light;
And the conch-shell crawls
Through the glimmering halls
The coral builds for the Infinite._

_And every gem
In His diadem,
From flaming topaz to moon-hushed pearl,
Glitters and glances
In swaying dances
Of waters adream like the eyes of a girl._

_The sea and the stars,
And the ghostly bars
Of the shoals all bright 'neath the feet of the moon;
The night that glistens,
And stops and listens
To the half-heard beat of an endless tune._

_Here Solitude
To itself doth brood,
At the furthest verge of the reef-spilt foam;
And the world's lone ends
Are met as friends,
And the homeless heart is at last at home._

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

_Once More in John Saunders's Snuggery._

Need I say that it was a great occasion when I was once more back safe
in John Saunders's snuggery, telling my story to my two friends,
comfortably enfolded in a cloud of tobacco smoke, John with his old port
at his elbow, and Charlie Webster and I flanked by our whiskies and
soda, all just as if I had never stirred from my easy chair, instead of
having spent an exciting month or so among sharks, dead men,
blood-lapping ghosts, card-playing skeletons and such like?

My friends listened to my yarn in characteristic fashion, John
Saunders's eyes more like mice peeping out of a cupboard than ever, and
Charlie Webster's huge bulk poised almost threateningly, as it were,
with the keenness of his attention. His deep-set kind brown eyes glowed
like a boy's as I went on, but by their dangerous kindling at certain
points of the story, those dealing with our pock-marked friend, Henry
P. Tobias, Jr., I soon realised where, for him, the chief interest of
the story lay.

"The ---- rebel!" he roared out once or twice, using an