The mat sail flapped against the mast and then hung loose while the chuckle of bow and outrigger died away. Harman, turning his face to the east, all gone watery with the dawn, leant forward and gave his sleeping companion a prod with the steering paddle.

Cruising in a South Sea island canoe tries the temper as well as the judgment, and two days of this business had considerably shortened the temper of Billy Harman.

For two days and two nights, fed on bananas and island truck, and led by the pointing of an indifferent compass, they had pursued the west, chased by the light of gorgeous dawns, broiled by midday suns, raising nothing but endless horizons and consuming sunsets.

“Wind’s gone!” cried Harman. “Flat calm and looks like stayin’ put.”

Davis roused, supported himself with a hand on the outrigger gratings, and blinked at the dawn; then he yawned, then he began to get command of speech.

“Whach you want digging me in the ribs like that for?” said Davis. “You and your flat calms! Where’s the hurry? Are you afraid it’ll run away? Blest if you aren’t the——”

“No use quarrellin’,” cut in the other; “fightin’s a mug’s game, and words won’t bring no wind. Pass us a drinkin’ nut.”

Davis passed the nut, and then, while the other refreshed himself, leant with his elbow on the grating and his eyes fixed lazily on the east.

Morning bank there was none, nor colour, nothing but a great crystal window showing infinite distance and taking suddenly a reflection of fire and a sill of gold: gold that moved and ran north and south and then leapt boiling across the swell as the sun burst up, hitting Harman in the back and Davis in the face and turning the lingering moon to a grey cinder above the azure of the west and the morning sea.

Away to the south, across the sunlit swell, a ship showed becalmed and painting the water with the reflection of her canvas, and, wonder of wonders, a mile from her and more to the north stood another ship, also held in the grip of the calm, and seeming the duplicate of the first in rig, tonnage, and design.

They were whalers, two of the last of the old whaling fleet, cruising maybe in company or brought together by chance.

Harman was the first to sight them; then Davis turned, and, leaning comfortably on the outrigger gratings, looked.

“Whalemen,” said Harman. “Look at ’em, stump topmasts, tryin’-out works and all! Look at ’em—damned pair of slush tubs!”

Davis said nothing; he spat into the water and continued to look while Harman went on.

“There you are, grumblin’ last night there were no ships about, and them things only waitin’ to show themselves, castin’ the canoe in the teeth o’ Providence, sayin’ you wanted planks under your feet to walk on. Planks, b’gosh! If one of them sight us we’ll be planked! I’ve been there and I know.”

“Oh, they won’t bother about us,” said Davis.

“Oh, won’t they?” said Harman. “Shows what you know of whalemen. If them chaps sighted the twelve ’postles driftin’ in a canoe, let alone us, they’d yank ’em on board and set ’em to work. Hands is what they’re always cravin’ for, and our only chance is they’ll take us for Kanakas, goin’ by the cut of the canoe.”

“Oh, they won’t bother about us,” said Davis; “and if they do, you ain’t a bad imitation of a Kanaka; but it’s cursed luck all the same. Planks, yes, I want the feel of a plank under my foot, and the feel that there isn’t only ten days’ grub and water between us and perdition—curse them!”

“Now you’ve done it!” cried Harman. “Look! They’re comin’!”

Sure enough, as though the last words of Davis had struck life into the far-off vessels, the decks of both ships suddenly boiled with ant-like figures, boats were dropped, and in a flash were making across the sea, two fleets of four boats each, and rowing as if in a race.

But they were not making for the canoe. Due north they headed over the glassy swell, while Davis, standing erect and holding on to the mast, watched with shaded eyes.

“Whales,” said he. “Whales they’re after, not us. Look at them!”

“I can’t see no whales,” said Harman.

“No, but they can,” said Davis. “Look! They’re heading west now, they’re on to them.”

A clap of thunder came over the sea and foam spurted amidst the distant boats. Then two of the boats detached themselves from the rest, skimming through the water without sail or oar, the flash of the foam at their bows clear to be seen.

“They’ve got their fish,” cried Harman. “Look, he’s going round to the north’ard, and here’s the breeze!”

Up from the south-east it was coming, spreading in great waves like fields of barley. The whale-ships had caught it and were trimming their yards in pursuit of the boats, and now, the mat sail of the canoe filling out and cracking against the mast, Harman seized the steering paddle and headed her due north.

“Where are you steering for?” shouted Davis.

“North,” replied the other. “You don’t want to be runnin’ into them ships, do you?”

Davis crawled aft, seized the paddle, and pushed the other forward.

“Cuss the ships!” said he. “They’ve got their own business to attend to, and I’m not going to put her off her course, not for Jim Satan! You don’t mind the ships—they’re busy.”

He was right.

A Swenfoyn gun had put a speedy end to the whale, and as the canoe drew along not half a mile away from the nearest ship it was being hauled alongside her and the tackles were out. But the remainder of the fleet of boats not busy in this work seemed engaged in some affair of their own which was not whale fishing; they were all surging together, oars were being tossed in the air and the far-away sound of shouting came across the water.

“Fightin’!” said Harman, “that’s what they’re at. They’re both claimin’ the fish. I know their monkey tricks. Look at them!”

But Davis was not listening to him, his quick eye had caught something floating ahead; altering the course a point he called to Harman to let go the sheet, then, leaning over, he grabbed the floating mass in both hands, yelling to the other to balance the canoe.

“Get out on the gratings and hold her down,” cried Davis, “our fortune’s made. Fish! No, you fool, it’s ambergris, what comes from whales’ innards, and is worth hundreds of pounds. Lord send they don’t see us!”

“Mind!” yelled Harman.

The gunnel lipped the water despite his weight and the outrigger rose a foot as Davis strove, then with a mighty effort he brought it tumbling on board, the water pouring off it, and there it lay between his feet a huge, knobby, putty-coloured mass, with octopus sucker-prongs sticking in it like tiger claws, and a two-fathom strip of pale green seaweed twined about it as if for ornament. Harman, without a word, crawled back across the outrigger grating and trimmed the sail while Davis, without a word, resumed the steering paddle.

He did not mind about altering his course now; he put her dead before the wind while Harman, half kneeling on the stub of the forward outrigger pole, and with his hand on a stay, reported progress.

“No, they ain’t seen us,” said Harman; “they’re all crowdin’ back on the ships and the fightin’s over. There’s never no good in fightin’, as I said to you this mornin’—not unless you get the other chap’s back to you and belt him on the head sudden. Now if those ballyhoos had quit arguin’ who’d harpooned first and kept their eyes skinned they’d a’ got ambergris instead of sore heads. How much ’s that stuff worth, do you reckon, Bud?”

“Mean to say you don’t know and you been on a whale-ship?”

“Never heard tell of the stuff before nor sighted it,” replied the other. “Whalemen don’t take stock of nothing but blubber—where does it come from, d’ye think?”

“Out of the whale,” said Davis, “and it’s worth twenty dollars an ounce.”

Harman laughed. When Bud had worked upon him sufficiently to make him see the truth he first took a look to make sure the whale-ships were showing only their topsails above the horizon, then he sat down to calculate the amount of their fortune.

Ambergris, though used in the production of scent, has no smell or only the faintest trace of odour when warmed; it is the ugliest stuff in the world, and as valuable as gold. Harman’s bother was that he did not know the weight of the lump. He reckoned, going by comparison with pigs of small ballast, that it might be half a hundred-weight, but the table of weights and measures barred him. He could not tell the number of ounces in a half hundred-weight.

“Well, it don’t much matter,” said he at last. “If you’re not lyin’ and it’s worth twenty dollars an ounce, then it’s worth twenty times its weight in dollars, and that’s good enough for us. Twenty bags of dollars as heavy as that lump of muck is good enough for Billy Harman. Say, it beats Jonah, don’t it? when you look at that stuff, which isn’t more nor less than good dinners by the hundred and bottles of fizz and girls by the raft-load. And to think of an old whale coughin’ it up; makes a chap b’lieve in the Scriptures, don’t it, seein’ what it is and seein’ where it come from, and seein’ how Providence shoved it right into our hands.”

“We haven’t cashed it yet,” said Davis.

“No, but we will,” replied the other. “I feel it in my bones. I’ve got a hunch the luck ain’t runnin’ streaky this time. Somethin’ else is comin’ along; you wait and see.”

He was right. Next morning, an hour after sunrise, a stain of smoke showed on the south-eastern horizon.

Steamers in those days were fewer in the Pacific even than now, but this was a steamer right enough.

“She’s coming dead for us,” said Davis, as the hull showed clear now of smoke. “Brail up the sail and stand by to signal her—what you make her out to be?”

“Mail boat,” said Harman. “Sydney-bound, I’ll bet a dollar. You’ll be hearin’ the passengers linin’ up and cheerin’ when we’re took aboard, and then it’ll be drinks and cigars and the best of good livin’ till we touch Circular Wharf. But I ain’t goin’ in for hard drinks, not till we cash in this ambergris, and not then, only may be a bottle of fizz to wet the luck. No, sir, seein’ Providence has dealt with us handsome, Billy’s goin’ to do likewise with her. Providence don’t hold with the jag, which ain’t more nor less than buyin’ headaches, and di’mond studs for bar tenders and sich. Providence is dead against the drink, and don’t you forget that.”

“Why, you were talking only last night of buying a saloon in ’Frisco,” said Davis.

“That ain’t buyin’ drink,” countered Mr. Harman. “Nor swallerin’ it, which is what I’m arguin’ against——Look at her how she’s liftin’.”

They said no more, watching the oncoming boat, now showing her bridge canvas distinct from her hull. Then suddenly Davis spoke.

“That’s no mail boat,” said Davis, “not big enough, stove-pipe funnel, and look at that canvas. She’s not even a B.P. boat—some old tub carrying copra or trade.”

“Not she,” said Harman. “Steam don’t pay in the copra business, bunkers have to be too big, seein’ there’s no coalin’ stations much in the islands.”

“We’ll soon see,” said Davis, and they did.

The stranger came shearing along, showing up now as a five or six hundred ton squat cargo boat, riding high and evidently in ballast, with a rust-red stove-pipe funnel and a general air of neglect that shouted across the sea.

Then the thud of the engines ceased, a yoop of her siren cut the air like a whiplash, and a string of bunting blew out.

Harman waved his shirt, and as the stranger came gliding on to them he got ready to catch the rope that a fellow was preparing to cast from the bow.

As they came alongside, lifting and falling with the swell, a big red-faced man, leaning over the bridge rail, began shouting directions, whilst Davis, seizing the ladder which had been dropped, climbed on deck, leaving Harman to manage the canoe.

The Oskosh was the name of the hooker, and Billy Schumways was the name of her master and owner. He was the big man on the bridge; seven days out from Arafata Lagoon with a crew of Chinks and a Savage Island bo’sun, makin’ down for Fuanatafi in a hurry. All of which he roared at Davis from the bridge and at Harman from over the bridge side.

“Claw on and kim up,” cried Captain Schumways to the hesitating Harman. “Cut that canoe adrift and come on deck, and don’t be wastin’ my time, or I’ll ring the injins on. What’s that you’re sayin’? Ambergris, what’s ambergris? Ain’t got no time to be muckin’ about—there, bring it if you want to.” He paused whilst Harman, having fastened a rope flung by Davis round the precious ambergris, came on deck guiding it up. Then, when they were both over the rail, Schumways, ringing the engines full speed ahead, came down from the bridge.

“Where’d you get that muck?” asked Captain Schumways, after they’d given their names and a yarn about having been drifted off an island when fishing. “Picked it up, did you? Well, you can shove it in the scupper if you’re set on keepin’ it, and now follow me down and I’ll show you your quarters. I’m sufferin’ for extra help in the engine-room and I reckon you’ve got to work your passage.”

He led the way to the saloon hatch and down to the saloon.

The Oskosh had been a Farsite Enfield boat running from ’Frisco to Seattle. Cargo, Klondyke diggers and, lastly, contraband had reduced her from respectability and cleanliness to her present state. The saloon was a wreck and ruin, the panelling split, the fittings gone, bunks filled with raffle and oddments, the table covered with old oil-cloth showing the marks of coffee cups, and over all a dank throat-catching atmosphere of decay, cockroaches and dirty bunk bedding.

Schumways inhabited the cabin aft. He pointed out two bunks to port and starboard.

“Them’s yours,” said he, “and there’s beddin’ and to spare. You’ll mess here, bein’ whites, and you’ll take your orders from me and Sellers; when you’ve cleared out them bunks and got your beddin’ in come along up and I’ll show you your job.”

He left them and went on deck, and Bud Davis sat down on the edge of a bunk.

“Say, Billy,” said Bud, “how about those passengers lining up and cheering? How about those soft drinks you were talking of?—or would you sooner have a highball?—and we’re to take our orders from him and Sellers. What I’m proposing to do is go up right now, catch him by the hoofs, and dump him over side, scrag Sellers, whoever he is, and take the ship. That’s how I’m feeling.”

“Ain’t no use,” said Harman. “Fightin’s a mug’s game. That chap’s a sure enough tough and we haven’t no guns. Lay low is the word, more especial as this packet is contraband and we’ve only to wait to get ’em by the short hairs. Contraband—look at her, guns or opium, with blackbirdin’ maybe thrown in, that’s all there is to her.”

Davis assented. These two old Pacific hands had an eye from which no ship could hide her character for sea-unworthiness or disrespectability; Schumways matched his ship, and Sellers, when he turned up, would be sure to match Schumways; the crew were Chinks, and the case was plain. Not that it bothered Bud or Billy; their one thought as they worked clearing the bunks and settling the bedding was the ambergris.

Schumways knew nothing of ambergris or its value—that fact was quite plain—but it would never do to leave it lying in the scupper, and Harman having poked his head up through the hatch and found a clear deck, they got it down, stowed it in a spare bunk occupied by a filthy rug, a suit of oilskins and a paraffin tin, covering it with the rug.

Then they came on deck, and the captain of the Oskosh, coming down from the bridge, introduced them to the engine-room and Sellers, a wire-drawn Yankee, six feet two, who introduced them to the engines and the stokehold.

“Chinks are firin’ her now,” said Sellers, “but you’ll hold yourself ready to take a hand at the shovellin’ if wanted. I’ll larn you how to shoot the stuff; that’s a pressure gauge—you’ll get to know it before you’ve done—and that’s an ile can—you’ll get to know her too.” He led the way down a passage four foot broad to a transverse passage eight foot broad, where, under a swinging oil lamp, Chinks, naked to the waist, were firing up. He opened the door of a long blazing tunnel and seized a shovel, the coal came down a chute right on to the floor, and taking a shovelful he demonstrated.

“Stokin’s not shootin’ coal into a fu’nace, it’s knowin’ where to shoot it. Every fu’nace has hungry places: there’s one, that dull patch up there, and there’s the food for it.” A shovelful of coal went flying into the gehenna right on to the dull patch, and, dropping the shovel, he seized an eight-foot bar of steel. “M’r’over, it’s not all shovellin’, it’s rakin’. Here’s your rake and how to use it. Then you’ve got to tend the ashlift, and when you’ve larnt not to stick your head in the fire when she’s pitchin’ hard you’ll be a stoker; ain’t nothin’ to it but the work an’ the will.”

“But see here, cully,” said Mr. Harman. “We ain’t signed on for stokin’ in this packet; engine-room fiddlin’ is stretchin’ a point with A.B.’s, but stokin’s outside the regulations. Clear, and by Board o’ Trade rules——”

“That’s them on board the Oskosh,” said Sellers, producing a revolver, which he exhibited lying flat in the palm of his huge hand as though he were showing a curiosity. “Six rules an’ regulations, soft-nosed—and don’t you forget it, son!”

Through days of blazing azure and nights of phosphorescent seas the Oskosh plugged steadily along on her course. She was square-rigged on the foremast, and used sail-power to assist the engines when the wind held, and always and ever, despite her dirt, her disorder, and the general slovenliness of her handling, she kept a bright eye out for strangers. When Schumways was not on the bridge using the binoculars, they were in the hands of the Savage Island bo’sun—a fact noted by Billy and Bud when those unfortunates had time to note anything in the midst of their multitudinous occupations.

They were not always put to stoking in this horrible ship, where things went anyhow and work was doubled for want of method. They would be oiling in the engine-room under command of Sellers when, maybe, the voice of Schumways would come ordering “them roustabouts” up to handle the sails: sail-handling, greasing, emptying slush tubs, helping in engine-room repairs, “lendin’ a hand in the stoke’old”—it was a mixed meal of work that did not please the appetites of Billy or Bud. Yet they had to swallow it. Kicking was no use. Harman tried it, and was kicked by Sellers, and took the injury and insult without retaliating. Fighting was a mug’s game, but deep in his soul Billy Harman formulated an oath of revenge, swearing that somehow, somewhere, and somewhen he would be even with the Oskoshites to the ultimate limit of their back teeth and the last short hairs of their persons.

He communicated this darkly to his fellow-sufferer, who laughed.

They were seated at breakfast feasting on the leavings of Schumways and Sellers and Davis told him to close up.

“You give me the mullygrubs with your talk,” said Davis. “Whenever you open your fool-mouth something happens wrong way about. This was a passenger packet, wasn’t it, and we were to sit in the saloon bein’ admired by the passengers, weren’t we? And was it Fourth Street or Fifth Street you were goin’ to open that whisky joint? And fighting is a mug’s game, according to you, whereas if we’d wiped the engine-room floor with Sellers first day instead of knuckling down to him we’d have stood on this ship as men, instead of being a hog-driven pair of roustabouts begging for scraps and emptying slush tubs. Too late now; they’ve got the better of us and know our make, which is putty, owing to you. Even with them! Why, I’ll bet twenty dollars to a nickel if you try any of your home-made tricks they’ll be even with us. Talking is all you’re good for—fighting’s a mug’s game!”

“So it is,” replied Mr. Harman. “Fool fightin’s no use; hittin’ out and gettin’ belted’s one thing, but stragety’s another, and that’s what I’m after, and if I don’t get my knife in these chaps’ ribs behind their backs and unknownst to them, you can take me home and bury me—and it won’t be long either!”

He was right.

That very evening they lifted Fuanatafi, their destination, a purple cloud in the sunset glow and a cloud of ebony by night as they lay off and on, listening to the far sound of the breakers till dawn revealed the great island in all its splendour and isolation; for Fuanatafi, like Nauru, has no harbour, just a landing beach to westward where boats can put in, razor-backed reefs keep ships a mile from the shore and make the place pretty useless for trade.

As the light broke full on the island Billy Harman, who had come on deck and was standing with Davis by the lee rail, saw away to southward another island with a peak-like summit, and to westward of that two small islets circled with moving clouds—gulls.

“Why, Lord bless my soul,” said he, “I’ve been here before, six years ago it was, and we took off a raft of turtle-shell for six cases of gin. Christopher Island was the other name they give it, and it’s head centre for all sorts of black doin’s. That island to suthard is Levisca, and it’s been blackbirded till there ain’t scarcely no Kanakas left on it. Now, I wonder what Schumways is landin’ here.”

As if in answer to his question two Chinks came aft carrying a long deal box between them, which they dumped close by the foremast.

The main hatch was open, and they could see more boxes being brought up, six in all, and each one, as it came on deck, was carried forward, the whole being stacked in one pile and covered with a tarpaulin. The engines ceased their dead-slow tramp: then came an order from the bridge and the roar and rasp of the anchor chain filled the morning air, echoing across the water and lifting the reef gulls in clanging spirals.

Schumways dropped down from the bridge and Sellers rose from the engine-room, wiping his hands with a piece of cotton waste; he had put on his coat and wore an old panama on his head ready for shore. Then at an order from Schumways the starboard quarter-boat was lowered, Harman and Davis were ordered into it, and the Captain of the Oskosh and his engineer took their places in the stern sheets.

Nothing could be more lovely than the morning light on the streets of blue water between the reefs or the view of the great island washed by the calm, ponded sea and waiting for the approaching boat, loveliness that left no trace, however, on the minds of Bud and Billy labouring at the oars, or of Schumways and Sellers smoking in the stern.

As they ran the boat’s nose on to the beach, out from the groves to right and left stepped a dozen Kanakas armed with spears. Casting their spears on the sand, they trod on them whilst Sellers and his companion, walking up the beach with hands outstretched, greeted the chief man, bright with palm oil, absolutely naked, and adorned simply with half a willow-pattern soup plate worn as a pendant.

The Kanakas and the two whites seemed old friends, and the whole lot, after a moment’s chatter, disappeared into the groves, leaving Bud and Billy on the beach by the stranded boat.

“They’re off to the village,” said Harman. “Wonder what they’re up to? Bargainin’ most like over them guns.”

“What guns?” asked Davis.

“Them cases we left on deck, them’s guns, or my name’s not Billy Harman. There’s six guns in each of them cases, that’s thirty-six for the lot, and I expect Schumways will be askin’ old Catch-em-alive-o ten pound apiece for them in coin or shell—maybe in bÊche-de-mer, for that’s as good as bank notes. That’s three hundred and sixty pounds and the durned things didn’t cost him sixty. I’ll bet——” He turned. Someone came breaking through the trees; it was Sellers.

“Hike off back to the ship and bring them cases,” cried Sellers, “the ones we’ve left on deck. If you can’t bring the whole six, bring four, and you can go back for the other two. Now then, you lazy sweeps, grease yourselves and get goin’.”

“Blast him!” said Davis as they pushed off across the inner lagoon towards the reef break leading to the outer reef channels sparkling blue in the sun.

“No use swearin’,” said Hannan, “it don’t cut no ice—— Bud, I’ve got them.”

“What do you mean?” asked Davis.

“Got ’em all in the fryin’ pan, b’gosh. It’s only jumped into my head this minute. Told you I’d get even with them at last, and now I’ve as good as done it.”

“What’s your plan?” asked Bud.

“You never mind,” replied Billy, “you do as I’m askin’ you and I’ll show you. Lay into your strokes now, and that’s all you have to do at the present minit.”

He seemed delighted with himself as he rowed, chuckling and chortling as though he already had the Oskoshites down and out. Bud, who knew Billy’s mentality from long practice and use, was not so elated. He knew that Harman, amongst his other mental qualities, was likely to go blind of one eye when seeing red or when ambition was at fever heat, and Billy was undoubtedly seeing red. Full of the thirst for revenge at having been made to work, at having been kicked and spoken to with contumely, he was fit for anything just now.

“What is it that’s in your mind, Billy?” asked the other as they drew up to the Oskosh.

“You wait and see,” said Harman; “say nuthin’ and follow my lead prompt and we’ve got them on a split stick.”

The Chinks stood by the ladder as Harman went up it, leaving Davis to mind the boat; then on deck he gave the Kanaka bo’sun his orders, and, while the cases were being got into the boat, stepped below.

He came up in a few minutes and helped with the last case, then, dropping into the boat beside Davis, he pushed off and they began rowing towards the shore.

“Go slow,” said Harman, “and don’t pull hard. The breeze is backin’ into the north and I’ll have the mast up in a minute, then we can run for Levisca. We could row there quick enough, but it’s easier to sail. After we’ve taken on grub and water there we can push farther south.”

“What the blue blazes are you talking of?” said Davis. “You mean running away in this boat?”

“Yep,” replied Harman.

“But, you fool, they’ll up steam and be after us before we’ve got half-way there.”

“Not they,” replied the strategist, “you wait an’ see. You keep your eye on the old Oskosh and you’ll see somethin’ funny in a minute.”

He ceased rowing, so did Davis, and the boat rocked on the swell, then, as he got the mast stepped and the sail shaken out, Davis, whose eyes were fixed on the far-off ship, gave an exclamation of surprise.

“Why, she’s lying awfully low in the water.”

“Yes,” said Harman quite simply. “I’ve opened the sea-cocks.”

“You’ve what?” cried the other.

“Opened the sea-cocks when I went below. The Chinks haven’t twigged yet that she’s sinkin’, she’s goin’ peaceful as a dyin’ Christian. Look”—a column of steam was rising from the funnel of the sinking ship—“they’ve twigged it now, but they don’t know what’s sinkin’ her, and if they did they haven’t enough sense to know what to do. B’sides, it’s too late. Look, they’re gettin’ out the boats; now help me to dump these durned cases and bring the sheet aft.”

Davis did as he was told, then as the boat lay over, making a long board for Levisca, he suddenly leant forward towards Harman, his face injected with blood.

“You’ve done it, haven’t you?” shouted Davis.

“Yes, b’gosh I have,” said Harman complacently, his eyes fixed on the Oskosh sinking by the head and with her stem high in the air.

“Wouldn’t tell me your plans, would you? So full of hitting Schumways you had no thought of anything else, weren’t you? Well, you sainted fool, what about that ambergris?”

“What ambergris? Oh, Lord! the ambergris,” said the wretched Harman, suddenly remembering. “We’ve left it behind!”

“You’ve left it, you mean. What would it have cost to have taken two Chinks down and fetched it up and stowed it in the boat? Not a nickel—and it was worth twenty thousand dollars.”

Harman said nothing. The Oskosh was making her last plunge and the over-loaded boats were making for shore, then his face slowly brightened as the face of Sellers and the face of Schumways rose before him—the two men who had forcibly introduced him to work. “It was worth it,” said he; “if it was five hundred dollars an ounce, it was worth it.”

“What was worth it?” asked Davis.

“Losin’ that ambergris,” replied Mr. Harman.