whole unconscious crew of them posting in the meanwhile towards so

tragic a disaster.

Twenty-eight days out of Sydney, on Christmas eve, they fetched up to

the entrance of the lagoon, and plied all that night outside, keeping

their position by the lights of fishers on the reef and the outlines of

the palms against the cloudy sky. With the break of day, the schooner

was hove to, and the signal for a pilot shown. But it was plain her

lights must have been observed in the darkness by the native fishermen,

and word carried to the settlement, for a boat was already under weigh.

She came towards them across the lagoon under a great press of sail,

lying dangerously down, so that at times, in the heavier puffs, they

thought she would turn turtle; covered the distance in fine style,

luffed up smartly alongside, and emitted a haggard looking white man in

pyjamas.

"Good-mornin', Cap'n," said he, when he had made good his entrance. "I

was taking you for a Fiji man-of-war, what with your flush decks and

them spars. Well, gen'lemen all, here's wishing you a Merry Christmas

and a Happy New Year," he added, and lurched against a stay.

"Why, you're never the pilot?" exclaimed Wicks, studying him with a

profound disfavour. "You've never taken a ship in--don't tell me!"

"Well, I should guess I have," returned the pilot. "I'm Captain Dobbs,

I am; and when I take charge, the captain of that ship can go below and

shave."

"But, man alive! you're drunk, man!" cried the captain.

"Drunk!" repeated Dobbs. "You can't have seen much life if you call me

drunk. I'm only just beginning. Come night, I won't say; I guess I'll be

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