'em from fishing-boats, and sung out it couldn't be done at the money.

Much they cared! there was the land, that was all they knew; and they

turned to and drove the boat slap ashore in the thick of it, and was

all drowned but one. No; boat trips are my eye," concluded the captain,

gloomily.

The tone was surprising in a man of his indomitable temper. "Come,

Captain," said Carthew, "you have something else up your sleeve; out

with it!"

"It's a fact," admitted Wicks. "You see there's a raft of little bally

reefs about here, kind of chicken-pox on the chart. Well, I looked 'em

all up, and there's one--Midway or Brooks they call it, not forty mile

from our assigned position--that I got news of. It turns out it's a

coaling station of the Pacific Mail," he said, simply.

"Well, and I know it ain't no such a thing," said Mac. "I been

quartermaster in that line myself."

"All right," returned Wicks. "There's the book. Read what Hoyt

says--read it aloud and let the others hear."

Hoyt's falsehood (as readers know) was explicit; incredulity was

impossible, and the news itself delightful beyond hope. Each saw in his

mind's eye the boat draw in to a trim island with a wharf, coal-sheds,

gardens, the Stars and Stripes and the white cottage of the keeper;

saw themselves idle a few weeks in tolerable quarters, and then step on

board the China mail, romantic waifs, and yet with pocketsful of money,

calling for champagne, and waited on by troops of stewards. Breakfast,

that had begun so dully, ended amid sober jubilation, and all hands

turned immediately to prepare the boat.

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