t pilot of Boston Bay before joining
the navy, but in the open sea he was as helpless as any.

"However," he said, in extenuation, "we only need to sail about
southeast to reach the African coast, and when we hit it we'll know it."
So the course was changed, and soon they sat down to their breakfast;
such a meal as they had not tasted in years--wardroom "grub," every
mouthful.

Denman was invited, and, as he was a prisoner on parole, was not too
dignified to accept, though he took no part in the hilarious
conversation. But neither did Forsythe.

Denman went to his room, locked up his private papers, and surrendered
his revolver to Jenkins, who declined it; he then put it with his papers
and returned to the deck, seating himself in a deck chair on the
quarter. The watch below had gone down, and those on deck, under
Jenkins, who stood no watch, busied themselves in the necessary cleaning
up of decks and stowing below of the fenders the boat had worn at the
dock.

Forsythe had gone below, and Denman was somewhat glad in his heart to be
free of him until he had settled his mind in regard to his attitude
toward him.

Manifestly he, a prisoner on parole, could not seek a conflict with
him. On the contrary, should Forsythe seek it, by word or deed, he could
not meet him without breaking his parole, which would bring him close
confinement.

Then, too, that prospective fight and vindication before Miss Florrie
and his townsmen seemed of very small importance compared with the
exigency at hand--the stealing by jail-breakers of the navy's best
destroyer and one of its officers.

His duty was to circumvent those fellows, and return the boat to the
government. To accomplish this he must be tactful and diplomatic,
deferring action until the time should come when he could safely ask to
be released from parole; and with regard to this he was glad that
Forsythe, though as evil-eyed as before, and with an additional
truculent expression of the face, had thus far shown him no incivility.
He was glad, too, because in his heart there were no revengeful thoughts
about Forsythe--nothing but thoughts of a duty to himself that had been
sadly neglected.

Thus tranquilized, he lit a cigar and looked around the horizon.

A speck to the north caught his eye, and as he watched, it became a
spot, then a tangible silhouette--a battle-ship, though of what country
he could not determine.

It was heading on a course that would intercept the