AMATUA was running down a beautifully shaded road as fast as his little legs would carry him, and close in chase, like a hawk after a sparrow, was a grizzled man-of-war’s-man with a switch. The road was long and straight; on both sides it was bordered by prickly hedges bright with limes, and as impenetrable as a tangle of barbed wire. At every step the white man gained on the boy, until the latter could hear the hoarse, angry breath of his pursuer. Amatua stopped short, and before he could even so much as turn he found himself in a grip of iron. Whish, whish, whish! dashed the switch on his bare back and legs, keen and stinging like the bite of fire-ants. It took all the little fellow’s manliness to keep him from bellowing aloud. The tears sprang to his eyes,—even the son of a chief is human like the rest of us,—but he would not cry.

“What’s all this?” rang out a voice, as a white man reined in his horse beside them—a tall man in spectacles, who spoke with an air of authority.

The sailor touched his hat. “Why, sir, you’d scarcely believe it,” he said, “the fuss I’ve had with this young savage! First he tried to lose me in the woods. I didn’t think nothing of that; but when he got me into a river for a swim, and then made off with my clothes, and hid ’em under a tree—I might have been looking for ’em yet, me that must be aboard my ship at twelve o’clock. Why, it might have cost me my stripe! I tell you, I never dreamed of such a thing, for me and Am have been friends ever since the first day I came ashore. He’s no better than a treacherous little what-d’ye-call-’em!”

“The chief says thou hidst his clothes,” said the stranger, in the native language. “He says thou triedst to lose him in the woods.”

“Ask him if I haven’t always been a good friend to him,” said the sailor. “Ask him who gave him the knife with the lanyard, and who made him the little spear to jug fish on the reef. Just you ask him that, sir.”

“Your Highness,” said Amatua, in his own tongue, “Bill doesn’t understand. I love Bill, and I don’t want him to drown. I want to save Bill’s high-chief life.”

“And so thou hidst Bill’s clothes,” said the stranger. “That was a fine way to help him!”

“Be not angry,” said Amatua. “Great is the wisdom of white chiefs in innumerable things, but there are some little, common, worthless things that they don’t understand at all.”

“Tell him I’m a leading seaman, sir,” went on Bill, who of course understood not a word of what Amatua was saying, and whose red, tired face still showed his indignation.

“The old women say that a great evil is about to befall us,” said Amatua, gravely, entirely disregarding Bill. “Everybody is talking of it, your Highness, even the wise minister from Malua College, Toalua, whose wisdom is like that of Solomon. There’s to be a storm from the north—a storm that will break the ships into ten thousand pieces, and line the beach with dead. Last night I could not sleep for thinking of Bill. Then I said to myself, ‘I will lose Bill for two days in the woods, and then he won’t be drowned at all.’ But Bill is wise, and made the sun guide him back to the right road. Then I made Bill bathe, and tried to steal his clothes. But Bill looked and looked and looked, and when he found them he thought I was a very bad boy.”

The stranger laughed, and translated all this long explanation to Bill.

“Goodness gracious!” said Bill. “Do you mean that the kid believes this fool superstition, and was trying to save me from the wreck?”

“That’s it,” said the stranger. “I’ve known Amatua for a long time, and I think he’s a pretty square boy.”

“Why, bless his little heart,” said the sailor, catching up the boy in his arms, “I might have known he couldn’t mean no harm! I tell you, we’ve been like father and son, me and Am has, up to this little picnic. But just you say to him, sir, that, storm or no storm, Bill’s place is the post of duty, and that he’d rather die there than live to be disgraced.”

But the white man had other work to do than translating for Bill and Amatua. He rode off and left them to trudge along on foot. Half an hour later they reached the beach, and saw the ships-of-war tugging heavily at their anchors. The weather looked dark and threatening, and a leaden surf was pounding the outer reefs. It appeared no easy matter to get Bill into the boat that was awaiting him, for she was full of men bound for the ship, and difficult to manage in the ebb and sweep of the seas. Bill’s face grew stern as he stared before him. He walked to the end of the wharf, and took a long, hawk-like look to seaward, never heeding the shaking woodwork nor the breakers that wet him to the knees. There was something ominous to Amatua in the sight of those deep-rolling ships and the piercing brightness of their ensigns and signal-flags. He was troubled, too, to see Bill so reckless in wetting his beautiful blue trousers and reducing his sliding feet, as the natives call shoes, his lovely patent-leather, silk-laced se’evae, to a state of pulp. He tried to draw him back, and pointed to the shoes as a receding wave left them once more to view. But Bill only laughed,—not one of his big hearty laughs, but the ghost of a laugh,—and a queer look came into his blue eyes. He walked slowly back to the boat, which was still rising and falling beside the wharf with its load of silent men. Suddenly he ran his hand into his pocket, and almost before Amatua could realise what it all meant, he felt Bill’s watch in his hand, and a round heavy thing that was unmistakably a dollar, and something soft and silken that could be nothing else than the sailor’s precious handkerchief. A second later Bill was in the boat, the tiller under his arm, while a dozen backs bent to drive him seaward. Amatua stood on the wharf and cried. He forgot the watch and the dollar and the silk handkerchief; he thought only of Bill,—his friend Bill,—the proud chief who would rather die at his post than find a coward’s place on shore. “Come back, Bill,” he cried, as he ran out to the end of the wharf, never caring for the waves that were dashing higher and higher. But the boat held on her course, dipping into the seas or rising like a storm-bird on some cresting comber until she vanished at last behind the towering Trenton.

Amatua did not sob for long. He was a practical boy, and knew that it could not help Bill,—poor Bill!—who already had all the salt water he cared about. So Amatua made his way back to land, and sought out a quiet spot where he could look at his new treasure and calculate on the most profitable way of spending his dollar. You could not say that the dollar burned a hole in his pocket, for Amatua did not use pockets, and his only clothes consisted of a little strip of very dingy cotton; but he was just as anxious to spend it as an American boy with ten pockets. First he looked at the watch. It was a lovely watch. It was none of your puny watches such as white ladies wear, but a thumping big chief of a watch, thick and heavy, with a tick like a missionary clock. It was of shining silver, and the back of it was all engraved and carved with ships and dolphins. Bill had shown it to him a hundred times when they had strolled about the town, or had gone, hand in hand, in search of many a pleasant adventure. It brought the tears to Amatua’s eyes to recall it all, and he pushed the watch aside to have a look at the handkerchief. This was another old friend. It was of the softest, thickest silk, such as girls delight in, all red and green and blue and yellow, like the colours of a rainbow.

There was nothing small about Bill. Even the dollar seemed bigger and fatter than any Amatua had seen; but then it must be remembered that dollars had seldom come his way. Oh, that dollar! How was he to spend it so that it would reach as far as two dollars?—a financial problem every one has had to grapple with at some time or another.

He was well up in the price of hardtack. The price fluctuated in Apia—all the way from twelve for a quarter up to eighteen for a quarter. Quality did not count; at any rate, Amatua was not one of those boys who mind a little mustiness in their hardtack, or that slight suspicion of rancid whale-oil which is a characteristic of the cheaper article. Hardtack was hardtack, and eighteen were better than twelve. Here was one quarter gone, and hardtack made way for soap. Yes, he must have soap. Even yesterday old Lu’au had said: “War is a terrible thing. It makes one’s heart shake like a little mouse in one’s body. But lack of soap is worse than war. You can get used to war; but who ever got used to going without soap?” Yes, there must be soap to gladden old Lu’au. This meant another quarter.

As to the third purchase there could be no manner of doubt; some ’ava, the white, dry root which, pounded in water and strained by the dexterous use of a wisp of fibre, supplies the Samoan for the lack of every comfort. Oh, how the ’ava would rejoice his father in those dismal woods, where he lay with the famishing army, bearing hunger, cold, and misery with uncomplaining fortitude. And it should be none of that dusty, spotted stuff that so many traders sell to unknowing whites, or natives in a hurry, but the white ’ava from Vaea, which grows the very finest in the South Seas. And the last quarter? How was that to go? Was it to be a new lava lava, or a white singlet, or two rusty cans of salmon, or some barrel beef? Amatua would have dearly loved some marbles; but in the depressed state of the family’s finances these were not to be thought of. The beef was the thing; the strong, rank beef that comes in barrels; you could get a slab of it for a quarter, and Latapie, the French trader, would give you a box of matches besides, or a few fish-hooks, for every quarter you spent at his store.

Having finished his calculations, Amatua started off to do his shopping. Even in the short time he had spent in the corner of the ruined church the sea had noticeably risen and was now thundering along the beach, while on the reefs a gleaming spray hung above the breakers like a mist. The stormy sky was splashed with ragged clouds and streaked with flying scud. At their moorings the seven ships rolled under until they seemed to drown the very muzzles of their guns; and the inky vapour that oozed from their funnels, and the incessant shrill shrieking of the boatswains’ whistles, all told a tale of brisk and anxious preparation. “Oh, poor Bill!” thought Amatua, and looked away. The wharf from which he had seen the last of his friend was already a wreck, nothing showing of it but the jagged stumps as the seas rolled back.

Two boys told him that a boat of Misi Moa’s had been smashed to pieces, and that a big whaler from Lufilufi that pulled fifty oars had shared the same fate. Knots of white traders stood gazing solemnly out to sea; the provost guards from the ships were ransacking the town for the few men they still missed, and they were told to hurry or their boats would never live to carry them back. There was a general air of apprehension and excitement; people were nailing up their windows and drawing in their boats before the encroaching ocean; and the impressiveness of the situation was not a little heightened by the heavy guard of blue-jackets lined up before the German consulate, and the throngs of Tamasese’s warriors that swarmed everywhere about, fierce of mien in that unfriendly town, with their faces blackened for war, and their hands encumbered with rifles and head-knives. But Amatua had no time to think of such things; the signs of war were familiar to him, and the armed and overbearing adversaries of his tribe and people were no longer so terrible as they once had been.

The increasing roar of the sea and the wild sky that spoke of the impending gale kept the thought of Bill close to his heart, and he went about his business with none of the pleasure that the spending of money once involved. Not that he forgot his prudence or his skill at bargaining in the anxiety for Bill that tore his little heart. By dint of walking and chaffering, he came off with twenty hardtack for his first quarter; with the soap he extorted a package of starch; and after he had sniffed beef all the way from Sogi to Vaiala,—a distance of two miles,—he became the proprietor of a hunk at least six ounces heavier than the ruling price allowed. The ’ava was of a superb quality, fit for a king to drink.

It was late when Amatua got home and crept into the great beehive of a house that had been the pride of his father’s heart. The girls shouted as they saw him, and old Lu’au clapped her hands as her quick eyes perceived the soap. His mother alone looked sad—his poor mother, who used to be so gay and full of fun in that happy time before the war. She had never been the same since her cousin, the divinity student, had brought back her brother’s head from the battle-field of Luatuanuu—that terrible battle-field where the best blood of Samoa was poured out like water.

She looked anxiously at Amatua’s parcels, and motioned him to her side, asking him in a low voice how and where he had got them.

“It was this way,” said Amatua. “Bill and I are brothers. What is mine is Bill’s; what is Bill’s is mine. We are two, but in heart we are one. That’s how I understand Bill, though he talks only the white man’s stutter. ‘Amatua,’ he said, just before he got into the boat,—I mean what he said in his heart, for there was not time for words,—‘we are all of us in God’s high-chief hands this day; a storm is coming, and my place is on my ship, where I shall live or be cast away, as God wills. Take you this dollar and spend it with care for the comfort of all our family; take my very valuable watch, that ticks louder than a missionary clock, and my handkerchief of silk, the like of which there is not in Samoa, and keep them for me. My life is God’s alone, but these things belong to all of our family. Stand firm in the love of God, and strengthen your heart to obey his high-chief will.’”

It was late when Amatua awoke. The house was empty save for old Lu’au, who was kindling a fire on the hearth. A strange uproar filled the air, the like of which Amatua had never heard before—the tramp of multitudes as they rushed and shouted, deafening explosions, and the shrill, high scream of the long-expected gale. Amatua leaped from his mats, girded up his loin-cloth, and ran headlong into the night. It was piercing cold, and he shivered like a leaf, but he took thought of nothing. He ran for the beach, which lay at no great distance from his father’s house, and was soon panting down the lane beside Mr. Eldridge’s store. It was flaming with lights and filled with a buzzing crowd of whites and natives; and on the front verandah there lay the dripping body of a sailor with a towel over his upturned face. The beach was jammed with people, and above the fury of the gale and the roaring breakers which threatened to engulf the very town there rang out the penetrating voices of the old war chiefs as they vociferated their orders and formed up their men. Even as Amatua stood dazed and almost crushed in the mob, there was a sudden roar, a rush of feet, and a narrow lane opened to a dozen powerful men springing through with the bodies of two sailors.

Amatua turned and fought his way seaward, boring through the crowd to where the seas swept up to his ankles, and he could make out the lights of the men-of-war. There was a ship on the reef; he could see the stupendous tangle of her yards and rigging; every wave swept in some of her perishing crew. The undertow ran out like a mill-race; living men were tossed up the beach like corks, only to be sucked back again to destruction. The Samoans were working with desperation to save the seamen’s lives, and more than one daring rescuer was himself swept into the breakers.

Amatua found himself beside a man who had just been relieved, and was thunderstruck to find that it was no other than Oa, an old friend of his, who had been in the forest with Mataafa.

“How do you happen here, Chief Oa?” shouted Amatua.

“The Tamaseses have retired on Mulinuu,” said Oa. “It is Mataafa’s order that we come and save what lives we can.”

“Germans, too?” asked Amatua, doubtfully, never forgetful of his father’s wound, or of his uncle who fell at Luatuanuu.

“We are not at war with God,” said the chief, sternly. “To-night there is peace in every man’s heart.”

Amatua stood long beside his friend, peering into that great void in which so many men were giving up their lives. Sometimes he could make out the dim hulls of ships when they loomed against the sky-line or as the heavens brightened for an instant. Bodies kept constantly washing in, nearly all of them Germans, as Amatua could tell by their uniforms, or, if these were torn from them in the merciless waters, by the prevalence of yellow hair and fair skins. Amatua shrank from the sight of these limp figures, and it was only his love for Bill that kept him on the watch. Poor Bill! How had he fared this night? Was he even now tumbling in the mighty rollers, his last duty done on this sorrowful earth, his brave heart still for ever? Or did he lie, as so many lay that night here and there about the town, wrapped in blankets in some white man’s house or native chief’s, safe and sound, beside a blazing fire?

Amatua at last grew tired of waiting there beside Oa. The cold ate into his very bones, and the crowd pressed and trampled on him without ceasing. He cared for nothing so long as he thought he might find Bill; but he now despaired of that and began to think of his tired little self. He forced his way back, and moved aimlessly along from house to house, looking in at the lighted windows in the vain hope of seeing Bill. Of dead men there were plenty, but he could not bear to look at them too closely. He was worn out by the horror and excitement he had undergone, and when his eyes closed, as they sometimes would, he seemed to see Bill’s face dancing before him. He was a very tired boy by the time he made his way home and threw himself once again on the mats in that empty house.

It was a strange sight that met Amatua’s gaze the next day on the Apia beach. The wind had fallen, and the mountainous waves of the previous night had given way to a heavy ground-swell. But the ships, the wreckage of ships, the ten thousand and one things—the million and one things—which lined the beach for a distance of two miles! One German man-of-war had gone down with every soul on board; another—the Adler—lay broken-backed and sideways on the reef; the Olga had been run ashore, and looked none the worse for her adventure. The United States ship Vandalia was a total wreck, and half under water; close to her lay the Trenton, with her gun-deck awash; and within a pistol-shot of both was the old Nipsic, her nose high on land. The British ship, the Calliope, was nowhere to be seen, having forced her way to sea in the teeth of the hurricane.

Amatua went almost crazy at the sight of what lay strewn on the beach that morning. He ran hither and thither, picking up one thing and then throwing it away for another he liked better: here an officer’s full-dress coat gleaming with gold lace, there a photograph-album in a woful state, some twisted rifles, and a broom; everywhere an extraordinary hotchpotch of things diverse and innumerable. Amatua found an elegant sword not a bit the worse for its trip ashore, an officer’s gold-laced cap, and a ditty-box, full of pins and needles and sewing-gear and old letters. He would also have carried off a tempting little cannon had it weighed anything under a quarter of a ton; as it was, he covered it with sand, and stood up the broom to mark the place, which, strange to say, he has never been able to find since. He got a cracked bell next, a tin of pork and beans, a bottle of varnish, a one-pound Hotchkiss shell, a big platter, and a German flag! This he thought enough for one load, and made his triumphant way home, where he tried pork and beans for the first time in his life—and did not like them.

It would have fared badly with him, for there was nothing in the house for him to eat save a few green bananas, had it not been for the Samoan pastor next door. The pastor had hauled a hundred-pound barrel of prime mess pork out of the surf, and in the fulness of his heart he was dividing slabs of it among his parishioners. Another neighbour had salvaged eleven cans of biscuit-pulp, which, though a trifle salt, was yet good enough to eat.

In fact, Amatua ate a rather hearty breakfast, and lingered longer over it than perhaps was well for the best interests of his family. By the time he returned to the beach the cream had been skimmed from the milk. True, there was no lack of machinery and old iron, and mountains of tangled rope and other ship’s gear; but there was no longer the gorgeous profusion of smaller articles, for ten thousand busy hands had been at work since dawn. Amatua searched for an hour, and got nothing but a squashy stamp-album and a musical box in the last stages of dissolution.

He realised regretfully that he could hope for nothing more, and after trading his album to a half-caste boy for a piece of lead, and exchanging the musical box for six marbles, he again bent his energies to the finding of Bill.

For fear of a conflict, the naval commanders had divided their forces. The Germans were encamped at one end of the town, the Americans at the other, and armed sentries paced between. Amatua had never seen so many white men in his life, and he knew scarcely which way to turn first. He was bewildered by the jostling host that encompassed him on every side, by the busy files that were marshalled away to work, the march and countermarch of disciplined feet, the shrill pipe of the boatswains’ calls, and the almost ceaseless bugling. He looked long and vainly for Bill in every nook and cranny of the town. He watched beside the Nipsic for an hour; he forced the guard-house, and even made his way into the improvised hospital, dodging the doctors and the tired orderlies. But all in vain. He trudged into Savalalo and Songi, where the Germans were gathered, fearing lest Bill might have been thrown into chains by those haughty foemen; but he found nothing but rows of dead, and weary men digging graves. He stopped officers on the street, and kind-faced seamen and marines, and asked them earnestly if they had seen Bill. Some paid no attention to him; others laughed and passed on; one man slapped him in the face.

When he came back from the German quarter he found a band playing in front of Mr. Moors’s store, and noticed sentries about the place, and important-looking officers, with swords and pistols. He was told that the admiral was up-stairs, and that Mr. Moors’s house was now the headquarters of the American forces. A great resolution welled up in Amatua’s heart. If there was one man on earth that ought to know about Bill, it was the admiral. Amatua dodged a sentry, and running up the steps, he crept along the verandah, and peeped into the room which Kimberly had exchanged for his sea-swept cabin. The admiral sat at a big table strewn inches high with papers, reports, and charts. He was writing in his shirt-sleeves, and on the chair beside him lay his uniform coat and gold-laced cap. At another table two men were also writing; at another a single man was nibbling a pen as he stared at the paper before him. It reminded Amatua of the pastor’s school. Half a dozen officers stood grouped in one corner, whispering to one another, their hands resting on their swords. It was all as quiet as church, and nothing could be heard but the scratch of pens as they raced across the paper. Suddenly a frowning officer noticed Amatua at the door. “Orderly,” he cried, “drive away that boy”; and Amatua was ignominiously seized, led down-stairs, and thrown roughly into the street.

Amatua cried as though his little heart would break. He sat on the front porch of the house, careless of the swarming folk about him, and took a melancholy pleasure in being jostled and trampled on. Oh, it was a miserable world! Bill was gone, and any one could cuff a little boy. More than one sailor patted his curly head and lifted him in the air and kissed him; but Amatua was too sore to care for such attentions. It was cruel to think that the one man alone in Samoa who knew where to find Bill, the great chief-captain up-stairs, was absolutely beyond his power to reach. This thought was unbearable; he nerved himself to try again; he recalled the admiral’s face, which was not unkindly, though sad and stern. After all, nothing worse could befall him than a beating. Again he dodged the lower sentry, and sprang up the stairs like a cat. Again he gazed into that quiet room and listened to the everlasting pens. This time he was discovered in an instant; the orderly pounced at him, but Amatua, with his heart in his mouth, rushed towards the admiral, and threw himself on his knees beside him. The old man put a protecting arm round his neck, and the orderly, foiled in the chase, could do nothing else than salute.

“Anderson,” said the admiral to an officer, “it is the second time the boy has been here. I tell you he is after something, and we are not in a position to disregard anything in this extraordinary country. He may have a message from King Mataafa. Send for Moors.”

In a few moments that gentleman appeared, and was bidden to ask Amatua what he wanted. The officers gathered close behind their chief, and even the assiduous writers looked up.

“What does he want?” demanded the admiral, who had no time to spare.

“He wants to find a sailor named Bill,” said Moors. “He’s afraid Bill is drowned, and thought he would ask you.”

Every one smiled save the admiral. “Are you sure that is all?” he said.

“He says he loved Bill very much,” said Moors, “and has searched the beach and the hospital and even the lock-up without finding him. Says he even waited alongside the Nipsic for an hour.”

“Half my men are named Bill,” said Kimberly; “but I fear his Bill is numbered with the rest of our brave fellows who went down last night. Moors,” he went on, “take the lad below, and give him any little thing he fancies in the store.”

Amatua did not know what might happen next, but he bravely tramped beside Mr. Moors, prepared to face the worst. He felt dizzy and faint when they got below, and Mr. Moors popped him up on the counter, and asked him whether he would prefer candy or some marbles. “The great chief-captain said thou wert a brave boy, and should have a present,” said Mr. Moors.

Amatua shook his head. Somehow he had lost interest in such trifles. “Thank his Majesty the admiral,” he said, “but an aching heart takes no pleasure in such things. With thy permission I will go out and look again for Bill. Perhaps, if I change my mind, I will come back and choose marbles,” he added cautiously; and with that he scrambled off the counter and made for the door.

“Oh, Bostock,” cried Moors to a naval officer lounging on the front verandah, “if you have nothing better to do, just take this kid along with you. He’s crazy to find a sailor named Bill, and he isn’t sure but that he was drowned last night. He must be pretty well cut up if he won’t take any marbles.”

Bostock stopped Amatua, and took his hand in his own. “We’ll go find Bill,” he said.

Again was the search begun for Bill, along the main street; in the alleys, and through the scattered native settlements behind the town as far as the Uvea huts, at Vaimoso, and the slums of the NieuÉ Islanders. Bostock let no seaman pass unnoticed; a heavy fatigue-party coming back from work on the wrecks—sixty men and four officers—were lined up at his request, and Amatua was led through the disciplined ranks in search of Bill. Even the Nipsic was boarded by the indefatigable Bostock and the weary little boy; and although repairs were being rushed at a tremendous pace, and every one looked overdriven and out of temper, the huge ship was overhauled from top to bottom. From the grimy stoke-hole, where everything dripped oil and the heat was insupportable, to the great maintop where men were busy at the rigging; from the crowded quarters of the seamen to the sodden and salt-smelling mess-room, in which the red came off the cushions like blood, the pair made their way in search of Bill.Bostock led the boy back to land, and said good-bye to him at the corner of the Apia Hotel. He tried to raise his spirits, and atone for their failure to find Bill, by the present of a shilling. Amatua accepted it with quiet gratitude, although the gift had not the cheering effect that Bostock desired. The little fellow was sick at heart, and all the shillings in the world could not have consoled him for the loss of Bill. The naval officer followed him with his eyes as he trudged sorrowfully home. He, too, had lost a lifelong friend in that awful night.

Amatua gave up all hope of ever seeing Bill again, as time slipped away and one day melted into another. He made friends with Bostock, and spent many a pleasant hour in the company of that jovial officer, following him about everywhere like a dog; but for all that he did not love him as he had loved Bill. Those were exciting times in Apia, and there was much to amuse and distract a little boy. In the day Bill often passed from his thoughts, for the incessant panorama life had now become almost precluded any other thought; but at night, when he awoke in the early hours and heard the cocks calling, then it was that his heart turned to Bill and overflowed with grief for his lost friend.

Two days after the storm—two as men count, but centuries in Amatua’s calendar—the British ship Calliope returned to port, strained and battered by that terrible hour when she had pitted her engines against the gale and taken her desperate dash for freedom.

But Amatua’s little head was far too full of something else for him to bother about another man-of-war. Bostock had promised to take him to the raft where men were diving for the Trenton’s treasure-chest. He knew all about men-of-war by this time, for he had the freedom of the Nipsic’s ward-room, and he took breakfast regularly with his friends, the officers. They had given him a gold-laced cap and a tin sword, and the tailor had made him a blue jacket with shoulder-straps and brass buttons and the stripes of a second lieutenant. He had his own appointed station when the ship beat to quarters; for the Nipsic had been got safely off the reef and once more divided the waters of the bay.

It was a beautiful morning when they pulled out in a shore boat to the raft where the work was in progress. As the Americans possessed no diving apparatus, Kane, the British captain, had lent them the one he carried, with six good men who had some experience in such matters. Amatua was disappointed to find so little to interest him. He examined the pump with which two men were keeping life in the diver below; but he could not understand the sense of it, and the continuous noise soon grew monotonous. Except a tin pail containing the men’s lunch, the brass-bound breaker of drinking water, and some old clothes, there was nothing in the world to attract a small boy. Amatua stood beside Bostock and yawned; the little second lieutenant longed to be on shore playing marbles with his friends in civil life. He was half asleep when Bostock plucked his arm and pointed into the depths beneath. A glittering shell-fish of ponderous weight and monstrous size was slowly rising to the surface. Every one rushed to the side of the raft, save only the two men at the pumps, who went on unmoved. Amatua clung to Bostock. Higher and higher came the hideous shell-fish, until its great, goggling-eyed head appeared horribly above the water. Amatua turned faint. The crew behaved with incredible daring, and seized the huge, bulging thing with the utmost fearlessness. It was frightful to see it step on the raft and toil painfully to the centre, as though it had been wounded in some mortal part. One of the men lifted a hammer as though to kill it, and began to tap, tap, tap on some weak spot in the neck. Then he threw down the hammer, detached the long suckers which reached from the beast’s snout, and started to unscrew its very head from its body. Amatua looked on confounded; he was shaking with horror, yet the fascination of that brassy monster drew him close.

Suddenly the creature sank on its knees, and the man gripped the head in both his hands and lifted it up. And underneath, wonder of wonders! there was the face of a man—a white man.

And the white man was Bill!

With a cry Amatua threw himself into his friend’s arms, dripping though he was. What did he care for the fine uniform, now that Bill was found again!

“And where have you been all this time?” asked Bostock.

“Oh, I’m the boatswain’s mate of the Calliope,” said Bill; “and what with the knocking about we got, I’ve been kept hard at it on the rigging.”

“You have been badly missed,” said Bostock.

“Bless his old heart!” said the sailor, “I think a lot of my little Am.”