ions of their life
ashore, and were glad, as I was, to "H'ist up the _John B._ Sail." We
sang that classic chanty, as we went out with all our canvas spread to
a lively northeast breeze--and I realised once more how good the sea was
for all manner of men, whatever their colour, for we all livened up and
shook off our land-laziness again, spry and laughing, and as keen as the
jib stretching out like a gull's wing into the rush and spray of the
sea.

Down in my cabin, I looked over some mail that had been waiting for me
at the post-office. Amongst it was a crisp, characteristic word from
Charlie Webster--for whom the gun will ever be mightier than the pen:

"_Tobias escaped--just heard he is on your island--watch out. Will
follow in a day or two._"

I came out on deck about sunset. We were running along with all our
sails drawing like a dream. I looked back at the captain, proud and
quiet and happy there at the helm, and nodded a smile to him, which he
returned with a flash of his teeth. He loved his boat; he asked nothing
better than to watch her behaving just as she was doing. And the other
boys seemed quiet and happy too, lying along the sides of the house,
ready for the captain's order, but meanwhile content to look up at the
great sails, and down again at the sea.

We were a ship and a ship's crew all at peace with one another, and
contented with ourselves--rushing and singing and spraying through the
water. We were all friends--sea, and sails, and crew together. I
couldn't help thinking that a mutiny would be hard to arrange under such
a combination of influences.

Tom was sitting forward, plaiting a rope. For all our experiences
together, he never implied that he was anything more than the ship's
cook, with the privilege of waiting upon me in the cabin at my meals.
But, of course, he knew that I had quite another valuation of him, and,
as our eyes met, I beckoned to him to draw closer to me.

"Tom," I said, "I have found my treasure."

"You don't say so, sar."

"Yes! Tom, and I rely upon you to help me to guard it. There are no
ghosts, this time, Tom," I added--as he said nothing, but waited for me
to go on--"and no need of our sucking fish...."

"Are you sure, sar?" he asked, adding: "You can never be sure about
ghosts--they are always around somewhere. And a sucking fish is liable
at any moment to be useful."

I opened my shirt in answer.

"There it is still, Tom; I agree with you. We won't take any