in a hole
like this. May have to wear and git out. All hands stick close
aboard to-night."

"In the morning," said Trask.

"In the mornin," echoed Dinshaw, but he seemed disappointed and
scarcely able to wait for the time of going ashore.

Trask got out his prospecting bag, and after supper they all sat on
the poop and talked and joked about what was in store for them the
next day--all except Dinshaw, who, like a child, had gone to bed
early, that morning would come the quicker.

Then Jarrow followed suit. Locke, Trask, and Marjorie remained for
an hour's chat in the darkness after which Trask was left to
himself to finish his cigar.

"Good luck, Mr. Trask," Marjorie had whispered, as she went down
the companion, and he touched her hand playfully.

He remained in his deck chair for some time, with only the friendly
glow of his cigar to keep him company, wondering how it would all
end. For all his impatience to get to the island, now that it was
lying there within stone's throw behind the whisper of the waves
washing its beach, he was sorry they had arrived so soon. For if
there should be no gold on the island, it would be a case of
turning back, and a couple of days more would see them in Manila,
and Marjorie Locke homeward bound with her father. But if there
should be gold! Well, that might give this voyage a new aspect, it
might alter his own fortunes in such way that he could tell
Marjorie Locke that he loved her.

Of course, if Dinshaw's discovery proved to be only a pocket, or no
gold at all, that would put an end to things. But if there was gold
in quantities that would pay for mining it, his own share might be
a good stake in life. His future hung on the old man's story, that
is his future considered with Marjorie Locke, and Trask had now
come to the point of not being able to consider his own future
alone, although he did not realize that wholly. It was a thought he
kept in the back of his mind for fear it might turn out to be only
a dream.

He threw his cigar into the sea, and stood up suddenly. There was a
queer noise from the break of the poop. It sounded as if someone
who had been startled had fled. He did not move for several
minutes. Then it came back to him that there were other things to
consider besides the success of this venture in gold and his future
with Marjorie Locke.

The schooner was quiet, ominously quiet. The queer noise had jarred
his nerves, and now he began to wonder if there