ialists, Drs Tracchi and Tomy, and with them perform an
operation on the Emperor's sarcophagus. Wheat is 1d. firmer.
Hides are dull, bank rate unaltered. Tallow is
improving._'

The absolute beauty of the thing, however, to Denison's mind, was that
the business manager had sold a copy of his translation of the cablegram
to the other local paper--run by the Cooktown Labour Union--which had
used it word for word.

Nothing of moment occurred after this till a report of a sermon by Dr
Stanton, the first Bishop of North Queensland, appeared. His lordship,
alluding to certain conditions of the human mind which rendered one's
judgment 'subject to warp and bias,' the intelligent compositor made it
'wasps and bees,' and Denison, being very sleepy when he read the proof,
let it go. And Dr Stanton, good and generous man, laughed heartily when
Denison, with a contrite and broken heart called on him, and asked for
his forgiveness.

But Nemesis was coming along. There was a wealthy and atrociously vulgar
magnate in Cooktown, whose wife ran second to Mrs Aubrey Denison in
local society, and who had just lost her father. The death announcement
appeared as follows:--

'On June 18, at the Bungalow, Cooktown, Donald Dugald
M'Whannel, Government Inspector of Artesian Bores for North
Queensland, aged sixty-five.

'Also, at the same time and place, five trusses of
Victoria hay, some pigs and calves, and twenty-six bags of
onions and potatoes, all in prime order.'

Of course this was the last straw, and Denison was asked to resign. But
as Mrs Aubrey Denison wrote and said she should like to forgive him for
his disgraceful conduct before he went away, he sent the Scotch foreman
of the _Trumpet-Call_ to explain to her that the catch-line of an
auctioneer's advertisement had been 'dropped' on the same galley as the
mortuary notice, and overlooked when the forme was locked. And so, after
a tender farewell to little Susie Sum Fat, and with her kisses still
warm upon his lips, Denison went out into the world again to look for a
ship.

A FISH DRIVE ON A MICRONESIAN ATOLL

We were thrashing our way in a little brigantine, owned by Tom de Wolf,
of Liverpool, against the strong north-east trade wind, from the Western
Carolines to Milli in the Marshalls, when one day we sighted a low-lying
cluster of five small palm-clad islands that lay basking, white and
green, in the bright Pacific