afe on the Mirabelle, Chris, exhausted and increasingly conscious of the pain of the whiplash, took his own shape with sighs of thankfulness and looked about him. A wind was rising, rocking the interlocked ships, and he could plainly see that the crew of the Mirabelle had done enormous damage to the Vulture and its attacking men. Cannon shots from the opening sally, and at such close range, had broken two of its three masts, and the decks of the Vulture were a clutter and tangle of lines, sails and splintered spars. The fact that the men of the Mirabelle were in better physical shape than the pirates stood them in good stead, for their agility and strength had carried them through the battle even against the wilier and more murderous knowledge of Claggett Chew's men. The pirates, Chris could see, were turning back, and those who still fought were one and all wounded or grazed, and losing ground with every passing moment.

Chris had been so terrified and panicstricken by his ownpersonal danger and fight for life that it took him a few minutes to catch his breath and grasp the situation from where he stood on the Captain's bridge. Wondering if he still had the strength to force a leak in the Vulture's hull, as he had begun to do, he felt in the leather pouch at his neck for the knife. At the bottom of the pouch his fingernails hit a gritty substance, and into his head came an echo of Mr. Wicker's words: "Remember the leather pouch!"

Taking out the knife, the folded balloon, and the map of where the Jewel Tree had been, Chris, leaning against the side of the Mirabelle, shook out the grainy stuff into the palm of one hand.

It looked like ground-up lava. Gray-black, almost a powder, it had a faintly sulphurous smell. As he turned it speculatively in his hand, wondering how he was supposed to use it, a few grains sifted between Chris's fingers and fell over the side into the sea.

Instantly, as soon as they touched the water, several infinitesimal flames started up, burning on the waves as hardily as if they had fallen onto dry grass, and their heat produced a sturdy mist which rose in heavy spirals from every grain.

Then Chris knew what it was for. Shaking every particle carefully back into the bag, he hurried to find Captain Blizzard.

"Sir!" he cried as soon as he was within earshot, "the pirates are bested, and we can make a safe escape if you will give an order to set loose the grappling irons and lines and bid our men raise sail!" He looked eagerly at Captain Blizzard. "The pirates look pretty tired now, but the Vulture might pursue us if I didn't know a way to stop her!"

The Captain looked thoughtfully at Chris and hesitated not at all. Too much had already depended on the boy and had been faithfully carried out for even Captain Blizzard to doubt of his ability. Orders were quickly given to cast off from the pirate ship and Chris disappeared to a hidden corner. There he hid everything the leather bag had contained excepting the grainy powder. Next, taking the bag from around his neck and leaving the mouth of it wide open, he changed his shape to that of a sea gull.

Taking the pouch in its beak the gull soared high above the two vessels, now drifting imperceptibly apart. Sounds of violent fighting could still be heard inside Claggett Chew's cabin, but the pirate crew seemed grateful enough to fall to the bloody decks to rest and care for their wounds. As the two ships finally stood clear of one another, a resounding cheer of victory rose from the courageous members of the Mirabelle. Their shirts ripped into hasty bandages, their bodies glistening with sweat and rusty with their own or their foes' blood, they were a bedraggled sight. Nevertheless, as they raised their arms or flung their caps into the air, flinging after the pirates a few last resounding epithets. Chris's heart swelled with emotion at the men he was proud to call his friends.

As the gull, he swung up into the air away from the Mirabelle, and began shaking the dust from the open pouch on the sea around the Vulture. By the time the bag was empty, a mist impossible for any helmsman to see through had surrounded the battered ship from stem to stern, and in despite of a freshening wind, was rising steadily to the top of its one remaining mast.

Chris returned to his own ship, and in his own shape at last, surveyed the dwindling island of mist that clung persistently around the Vulture, blow though the wind might, and turn and turn again though the helmsman might try to do. How long, Chris wondered, would the mist hold? Or would the Vulture be doomed to drift at the mercy of the sea in its magic white shroud?

He gave it a long look, a diminishing irregular white shape on the vast spread of the ocean, then turned quickly and went to the decks below to help his wounded friends. Yet not before he had seen that the prow of the Mirabelle was turned triumphantly home!