"But I didn't hit him. He hit me."

"But you were going to, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "Strikes me the time's come for running away."

Don shook his head.

"Why, you was red hot on it the other day, my lad."

"Yes, but I've been thinking a great deal about it since, Jem; and it seems to me that it would be too cowardly to run now we are king's sailors."

"But not if you were going to be punished for doing nothing."

"N-o, Jem," said Don hesitatingly.

"And for being hit as the captain hit you."

"N-no, Jem; but—but somehow—There, don't say any more about it now."



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

BEFORE THE CAPTAIN.

Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don's offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy's nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor.

The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris' acts.

Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy.

"Never mind, Mas' Don. You'll grow into a man some day," Jem used to say.

The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries.

More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman.

"Haven't made up your minds to come and join us?" he said, laughing; and Don shook his head.

"Ah, well! I won't persuade you, my lad. P'r'aps you're best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me."

"How should we find you?" said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful.

"Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he'll bring you to me."

"Tomati Paroni," said Don thoughtfully; "is that New Zealand for Tom— Tom—?"

"Tom Brown," said the chief, laughing. "They have all sorts of English words like that."

The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.

"Lots of 'em would desert," Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don's that they touched, "only—"

"Well, only what?" said Don.

"They say they'd rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks."

"They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work."

"Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?"

"Numbers of things. But what in particular?"

"Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?"

"Yes; I know."

"Well, he'd got a flute."

"What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one."

"What was it made on?" whispered Jem.

"Box-wood, with ivory mountings."

"Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether—I mean, of bone."

"Well?"

"Guess what bone it was."

"How can I tell?"

"Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was."

"How do you know?"

"Why, Tomati telled me."

"Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting."

Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch.

Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.

"This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch."

"Yes, it is wearisome, Jem."

"Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up."

"So was I, Jem."

"What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?"

"Home."

"Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now."

"Sitting down to tea, Jem."

"What! In the middle of the night?"

"It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world."

"Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?"

"No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow."

"Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men."

"Fancy, Jem."

"So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?"

"No, Jem. Getting tired of it?"

"Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home."

That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed.

"Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear.

Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed.

"What for, Jem?"

"To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more."

"Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you."

"The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind.

"That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will.

Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant.

Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward.

"Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now."

"Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word desert and I was that took aback, sir, I—"

"Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer.

"Yes, sir," said Ramsden.

"Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile.

"Soon as I heard that word desert, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore."

"What did they say?"

"Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals."

"Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem.

"Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them."

The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped.

"That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?"

Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too.

"Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours."

"Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily.

"Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is—death."

Jem started, but Don did not stir.

"Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you—either of you—to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and—the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?"

Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign.

"Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present."

He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons.

"Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

TOMATL'S PROMISE.

"Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures."

"Jem!" said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion's words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; "it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace."

"Hush, hush, my lad! Don't take it that way. They arn't so werry heavy, and they don't hurt much."

"Hurt? Not hurt much? Why, they are treating us as if we were thieves."

"What, being ironed, sir? Well, it do seem a bit hard."

"It's cruel! It's horrible! And he had no right to do it for such an offence."

"Steady, my lad, steady. The sentry 'll hear you, and have his turn, p'r'aps, at telling tales."

"But he had no right to do this, I say."

"P'r'aps not, Mas' Don; but skippers does just what they please when they're out at sea in war time. I thought he was going to hang us once."

"He would not dare," said Don.

"Well, if he did, I should have liked to have a few words first with Mr Ramsden; for of all the mean, dirty, sneaking chaps I ever set eyes on, he's about the worst."

"A mean, cowardly spy!" cried Don.

"Ah, that's it; so he is, Mas' Don; a mean, cowardly spy. I couldn't think o' them words, but they're just what he is.—Say, Mas' Don."

"Don't, don't, don't, Jem."

"Don't what, Mas' Don?"

"Don't do that. Master Don. It sounds so foolish, and it's ridiculous, seeing what we are."

"All right, my lad, I'll be careful; but what I wanted to say was, would there be any harm in taking Master Ramsden by his waistband, and dropping him some night over into the sea?"

"Do you want to commit murder, Jem?"

"Do I want to commit murder? Nay, Mas' Don, gently, gently; don't talk to a man like that. I only meant to give him a ducking."

"Amongst the sharks?"

"Ugh! I forgot all about the sharks, Mas' Don. I say, think there are many of 'em about?"

"They say there are plenty, and we saw a monster, Jem."

"So we did, my lad; so we did, and a nice lot o' worry he's got us in through stealing that boathook. But, look here, how do you feel now?"

"Heart-sick and tired of it all, Jem. I wish we had run off when we had the chance."

"You do?"

"I do. See how we have been served: dragged from our homes, roughly used; bullied and ill-treated; and with that man's word taken before ours. It's too bad—too bad."

"Well, it is, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "But you see it was awkward. You couldn't swear as you hadn't thoughts of deserting."

"Deserting?" said Don hotly. "I will not have it called deserting. I say it is only claiming our liberty, when we have been seized upon and treated like slaves."

"What a weather-cocky way you have got, Mas' Don. Only t'other day you was all on the other tack, and says, says you, 'It's deserting, and cowardly,' and a lot more to that tune, and the way you went on at me, sir, made my hair curl."

"I had not had this last blow, Jem. I had not been put in irons then like a common thief."

"Silence, below there!" cried an angry voice. "Sentry, stop that talking by the prisoners."

The marine marched slowly toward them, and growled out his orders. Then, settling his head in his stiff stock, he faced round and marched away.

"All right, Jolly," said Jem, good-humouredly; and then drawing closer to his companion in misfortune, he went on talking in a whisper.

"Say, Mas' Don, do you mean it now?"

"Mean what?"

"Going? It's now or never. If we waits till we goes off to sea again our chance is gone."

"I mean it, Jem."

"That's a good bargain, my lad," said Jem, slapping him on the knee. "Then the sooner we're off the better."

"How can we go?"

"How? Easy enough. Get on deck, slide down a rope over the side when it's dark."

"In irons?"

"They don't weigh much. We could get hold of an oar or two, or lower down a grating, and hold on by that till we'd swam ashore."

"And the sharks, Jem?"

"Oh, those sharks!" cried Jem, pettishly. "I always forget them. I wish there wasn't such a thing as a shark on the face of the earth. Well, we must try some other way."

"That's easy enough to say, Jem; but what way is there?"

"Oh, I don't know yet, Mas' Don; but they say, 'where there's a will there's a way.' P'r'aps I can think it out. 'Member that big case as was too wide to come into the lower warehouse?"

"Yes."

"Well, your uncle said he'd be obliged to have the doorposts cut, but I thought that out after I'd measured it, and I found that it would just go in at the top warehouse doors if we hauled it up with the crane."

"You used to call it winding anything up, Jem."

"Ay, but I hadn't been to sea then, Mas' Don. Well, didn't I have that there case up to the top floor, and then lower it down through all the traps, and get it into the ground floor without the door being cut; and when your uncle come in, he stared, and asked me how I'd managed it?"

"Yes, I remember it all," said Don sadly.

"Look here, you two. I don't want to be hard," said the marine; "but you'll get me into a row. Now, are you going to clap on the hatchways, or am I to report you?"

"All right, Jolly; we won't talk any more," said Jem; and he kept his word that night.

There was no release next day, and very drearily it passed till towards evening, when Jem waited till the sentry's back was turned, and put his lips to Don's ear.

"I've got it, Mas' Don," he said.

"What, can you see your way to escape?"

"I've hit it out, my lad. Look here. Do you know them's men's irons you've got on?"

"Yes. They don't make irons for boys."

"Then look here, my lad; it may mean a bit of skin off; but all you've got to do is to squeeze your feet through those rings, and then I'll be bound to say a thin slip of a fellow like you can creep out of the iron round your waist."

"I don't think so, Jem. I'm stouter than you fancy."

"Oh no, you're not, and I dessay it'll be a tight fit; but you do it."

"And suppose I do get out of them, what about you?"

"About me, Mas' Don? Ah, I don't know about me; but you could get right away, slide down the rope, get the gig up alongside—"

"When it's swinging from the davits, Jem?"

"There you go again," grumbled Jem. "I never did see such a fellow for chucking stumbling-blocks all over the place for a man to hit his shins against."

"Then propose something possible. And besides, you don't suppose I'm going away without you."

"But I can't get my irons off, and you can get yours."

"I don't know that," said Don, trying; and, to his great surprise, finding that he could drag the ring over his ankle without much difficulty.

"There, I told you so. Slip it on again 'fore the sentry sees."

The marine was not likely to see, for the place was very dark where they sat, and for a long time they discussed the matter in a whisper, but only to be obliged to come to the conclusion that it was impossible to escape, unless Don would go alone.

"Well, if you won't go alone, you won't, Mas' Don," said Jem, in an ill-used tone; "but I do say as it's shabby of you, after I've thought about it so much."

The second night of their imprisonment passed slowly, and they were cudgelling their brains next day, when they were summoned on deck, received a severe reprimand, and, after their irons had been taken off, were told to go to their duty.

Then a week passed of land surveying and chart making, during which time the intercourse with the natives had been kept on a very friendly footing; and then a rumour ran round the ship that they were to sail after a certain channel had been sounded and the chart made.

"It's all over, Mas' Don," said Jem gloomily. "We shall go sailing away all over the world, and be took by the French, and never see home again!"

Don made no reply, but went about his duty gloomily enough till toward afternoon, when a canoe came off from the shore, manned by about fifty of the New Zealanders, and with Tomati and Ngati in the stern.

These two were soon on board, and were entertained by the captain, who made them several useful presents.

How he managed it Don hardly knew himself, but he contrived to get close behind the tattooed Englishman, and said softly, just as the officers were laughing and watching Ngati, who was going through his war-dance for their delectation, and distorting his features to the greatest extent,—

"Could you come after dark to-night in your canoe, and take us ashore?"

"Hist! Mind what you're saying," replied the man, clapping his legs loudly, as if to encourage his companion to fresh exertions and distortions of his countenance.

"I want to come," said Don softly, in the midst of the applause.

"I daren't do it, my lad. They'd come down after me if I did; but I'll send Ngati. He'll come in his little canoe."

Don's heart beat wildly at these words, and he had no chance to say more, for Tomati went toward the officers, talked with them for a while; and then, as Don watched, he saw him go to the big chief, clap him on the shoulder, and say something which made the great fellow smile.

The New Zealanders seemed to show more interest in the appointments of the ship than they had displayed before, and the officers were civil enough to them, exchanging presents, and getting from the dusky warriors greenstone ornaments and weapons in exchange for powder and tobacco.

Don's heart had ceased to beat, and he was thinking despondently that he might as well give up all idea of evasion, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, it was to encounter the hideous face of the big chief, who said, with a peculiar laugh,—

"My pakeha. Bring gunpowder plenty. Wait by big ship. Dark."

It was not a very clear promise, but Don realised that it meant a chance of escape, and his eyes flashed with excitement, as the chief went on.

"Plenty gunpowder. Bring, bring. My pakeha."

He went off directly to where some of his fellows were standing about the deck, and hardly realising whether the chief was to be depended on, Don was about to go in search of Jem, when he felt a chill of despair, for, as he turned, he encountered the sinister countenance of Ramsden, his eye fixed upon him in a watchful way, and a satisfied smile playing about his lips.

Did he hear? Did he know? If he did, Don felt certain that the scoundrel would go and report all to one of the officers, and so get it to the captain's ears.

Still there was hope. He might not have heard, and as to the New Zealand men speaking to him, they were doing that to nearly every sailor they encountered on the deck.

Still he felt that it would be better not to be seen speaking to Jem, and he crossed to another part of the ship, and stood watching the leave-taking of the visitors, who descended into their canoe laden with presents and the objects they had obtained by barter.

Tomati was the last to descend, and he was standing in the gangway with a bottle of rum and a canister of powder in his hands, when Don heard the first lieutenant say to him jocularly,—

"I say, my fine fellow: I believe if the truth was known, you slipped off from Norfolk Island, and took up your residence here."

The man made no answer for a few moments, but stood looking the officer full in the face.

"What island did you say, sir?" he said at last.

"Norfolk Island. Am I right?"

"I'm a chief of this tribe, sir," said the man sturdily, "and these are my people. I'm not an Englishman now."

He went down into his canoe, and it darted away, propelled by fifty paddles, while the lieutenant turned away laughing, and went to the captain.

"That man's an escaped convict, or I'm a Dutchman, sir," he said; and they went forward talking.

Don cast an eye round for Jem, but he was not in sight. Ramsden was though; and, go where he would for the rest of that day, Don always woke to the fact that this man was at hand, apparently taking no notice, but watching him.

It seemed as if he would never have a chance to speak to Jem about what had passed; but at last Ramsden went below, and after a little inquiry Don learned that Jem was aloft in the foretop, helping a couple more men at repairing some of the toggles and reef points of a sail.

Don ran up as fast as his skill would allow, and had hardly reached the top when Ramsden came back on deck, and began seeking him out.

Don paused, out of sight now, to watch the man in turn, and saw him go from place to place, looking about searchingly, and undoubtedly for him.

"Hullo, my lad!" said Jem cheerily; "come to help?"

Don shook his head, and remained watching the progress of the men, but giving Jem a meaning look from time to time, sufficient to stimulate his curiosity, and make him on the qui vive. Then to avoid suspicion, he hurried down, and had hardly reached the deck again before Ramsden, who had again been below, came once more on deck, and remained watching him till dark.

"Let's get under the lee of this bulwark," said Don, when at last he found an opportunity for speaking to Jem alone.

"We shall get in a row if we are seen," said Jem.

"But it's too dark for us to be seen," whispered Don; and this seeming to be the case, they went into the shadow cast by one of the quarter boats, and lay down.

"What is it, Mas' Don?" said Jem in a whisper, as soon as they had satisfied themselves that they were alone.

Don related what had passed; but Jem did not seem to take to it.

"No," he said; "he is not likely to come, and if he did, they'd hear his canoe, and nail him. What time did he say?"

"Time? There was no time named."

"Then how shall we know, my lad? We can't watch for him all night."

"Why not?" said Don excitedly. "It seems to be our last chance."

"Well, I dunno," said Jem, gloomily; "it don't seem to me like a chance at all. But I'll do what you do, my lad. I'll stand by you."

"Then let's begin our watch at once, after we've put a rope overboard from the forechains, so as to slip down when the canoe comes."

"And what then?"

"Then, Jem, we must swim to it, and they'll take us aboard."

"And the sharks, my lad?"

"Sharks!" said Don despairingly. "I'd forgotten them."

"That's what I used to do, but you always remembered."

"Jem," said Don, after a pause, "we must chance the sharks. They will not see us in the dark."

"But if—No; I won't show the white feather, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Come on, and we'll get a rope over to starboard and larboard too."

"No need, Jem," said Don. "The canoe is sure to come from the land side."

"All right, sir. Come on, and don't say another word."

Jem crept away, keeping in the shadow, and moving very slowly, so as not to attract the attention of the watch, and Don followed, while, as soon as he had gone a few yards, what looked like a dog slowly crept by on all fours close beneath the bulwark, after getting up from a crouching position just by where the pair had been discussing their chances of escape.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE ALARM.

There were so many opportunities for lying perdu on the deck of a man-of-war on a dark night that the shadowy figure had no difficulty in keeping pretty close to Don Lavington and his companion as, decided now upon their course of action, they laid hold upon a stout line where it was coiled up, and after running a sufficiency over the side to touch water, made it fast close to the main chains.

This done, they went cautiously forward so as to avoid the watch, and after being nearly seen, more than once, succeeded in getting a second line over the side close to the fore chains, in happy unconsciousness of the fact that the shadowy-looking figure was watching every movement.

As is the fashion aboard a man-of-war, the actors in this scene were barefooted, and thus able to pass quietly along the well-scrubbed deck; but unfortunately for them, the sailor playing the spy had the same advantage, and kept them in view unnoticed and unheard.

Now he was lying under the bulwarks, and so close that Jem's foot almost touched his shoulder. Another time he was lying in one of the boats slung from the davits—then behind a coil of rope—behind the cook's galley—in the lee of a cask—once in a water barrel which was to be filled with the icy fluid of the river which came down from one of the mountains; always, with the activity of a monkey, contriving to be somewhere close at hand, till they stood at last, silent and watchful, about mid-way between the fore and main chains, peering out into the darkness shoreward and listening for the faintest sound from off the sea.

It was a wonderfully still night, and though out to the east the restless waves beat heavily on reef and shore, their action here was a slow heaving and curling over on the black metallic sand with a sound that to those on shipboard was like a whisper, but whose movement could be seen by a faint line of lambent light just in the blackest part to leeward of the ship, where sea touched shore. Sometimes this was so faint as to be hardly visible to the best-trained sight; at others it was as if some phosphorescent serpent was gliding swiftly along the sands, and it was in this direction that Don strained his eyes in the hope of catching sight of Ngati's canoe, whose paddles would churn up the water and shed on either side a faint golden light.

On board there were the customary anchor lanterns, and the faint glow thrown up from the skylights; but these seemed to have scarcely any effect upon the darkness, which hung down like a pall over the vessel, and Don's spirits rose as he felt how well they were concealed. Then they sank once more, for Jem placed his lips close to his ear and whispered,—

"It's too dark, my lad; we shall never be able to see the canoe if she comes."

Just then Don pressed his arm, and they listened together to what sounded like a faint sawing noise, which stopped and was renewed several times, and was followed by a slight splash.

The sounds came from forward, apparently somewhere in the direction of the foreshrouds; but though they listened intently it was heard no more.

"Fish," said Jem in a whisper, "trying to climb up into the ship, and then tumbled back into the sea."

"Nonsense!" said Don, shortly. "Now you look to the left, and I'll look to the right."

"Right, my lad. I'll look, but she won't come."

The searching scrutiny went on, and to Don, as he strained his eyes, it seemed as if all kinds of uncouth-looking monsters kept looming up out of the sea and disappearing; and though from time to time he told himself that it was all fancy, the various objects that his excited vision formed were so real that it was hard to believe that they were only the coinage of his fancy.

He turned and looked on board at the various lights, faintly-seen, with the result that his eyes were rested, while he listened to the monotonous talking of the watch and an occasional burst of laughter from the gunroom, or the regular murmur from the forecastle.

Then he watched shoreward again for the faint golden flash made by the paddles of Ngati's canoe.

No lambent glow, no sound of paddling, not even a murmur from the shore, where the native huts were gathered together, and the great whare stood with its singularly carved posts representing human form over human form in strange combinations, with grotesque heads, pearly shell eyes, and tongues protruding from distorted mouths.

Then Jem caught Don's arm in turn, for there was a splash far away to the left, below where, faintly-seen, a great sugar-loaf mountain rose high into the heavens.

The splash was not repeated, but, just as they had given up listening for it, once more the dull sawing sound came out of the darkness, but this time, instead of being forward it was away aft—how far they could not tell, for in the darkness sounds, like lights, may be close at hand or a couple of hundred yards away—it is hard to tell which.

The faint sawing went on for some time, ceased, and was renewed, to finish as before with a curious rustling and a splash.

"What can that be, Jem?" whispered Don.

"Not going to wenture an observation again," replied Jem, sourly.

Then all was still save the murmurs of voices inboard, and Don stood pressed against the bulwark listening intently, and thinking that before they went below to their hammocks they must haul up the lines again and coil them down, or their appearance would betray that something had been going on.

How long they had been waiting since the last sound was heard, Don could not tell; but all was so wonderfully still that the silence was oppressive; and after arriving at the conclusion that the canoe would not come, as from the utter absence of light or movement ashore it was evident that none of the natives were stirring, he turned to Jem.

"Asleep?" he whispered.

"I arn't a horse, am I?" was the surly reply. "Nice place to go to sleep standing up, Mas' Don.—Think he'll come?"

"I in afraid not, now."

"What shall us do?"

Don was silent.

"Say, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, after a thoughtful pause, "seems a pity to waste them ropes after—"

"Hist!"

Don's hand was on his lips, for voices were heard from aft, and directly after they heard the captain say,—

"Yes; extremely dark. Think we shall have a storm?"

"No," said the first lieutenant, "the glass is too high. Very dark indeed."

Then two faint sparks of light could be seen, indicating that the speakers were smoking, and the low murmuring of their voices suggested that they were chatting carelessly together.

"Keep your hand down, Mas' Don," said Jem in a whisper, after removing it. "They can't hear us, and if they did they'd think it was the watch. Say, look here, seems a pity to waste them ropes after we've got 'em down ready."

"Yes, Jem, it does."

"Such a short way to slide down, and no fear o' their breaking, same as there was in that cock-loft. What d'yer say?"

"What to?"

"Let's slide down and swim for it. 'Tarn't quarter of a mile. You could do that easy."

"Yes, Jem; I think so."

"And I'd help you if you got tired. Let's go."

"But the sharks."

"There I goes again. I always forgets them sharks; but look here, my lad, it's dark as pitch."

"Quite, Jem."

"We can't see twenty yards afore us, not clear."

"Not ten, Jem."

"Well, that's through the air. We couldn't see an inch through water."

"What of that?"

"More couldn't the sharks."

"Think not, Jem?"

"I feel 'bout sure on it. Look here, Mas' Don, I arn't got any money, but if I had, I'd wager half-a-guinea that all the sharks are at home and fast asleep; and if there's any of 'em shut out and roaming about in the streets—I mean in the sea—it's so dark that they couldn't see more than an inch before their noses; so let's open our knives ready, in case one should come, so that we could dive down and stab him, same as the natives do, and then swim on ashore. I'll risk it: will you?"

Don was silent for a few moments.

"Don't say yes, my lad, if you'd rayther not," said Jem, kindly. "I don't want to persuade you."

"I'm ready, Jem. I was thinking whether it was right to let you go."

"Oh, never you mind about me, my lad. Now, look here, shall us one go down each rope, or both down one?"

"Both down this one close here, and whoever goes down first can wait for the other. Yes, Jem; I'll go first."

"When?"

"Now, at once."

"Hoo—ray!" whispered Jem in Don's ear, so sharply that it produced a strange tickling sensation.

"Open your knife, Jem."

"Right, my lad; I'm ready."

"This way, then. Hist!"

Don caught Jem's arm in a firm grip as he was moving along the deck, each feeling somewhat agitated at the daring venture of exchanging firm planks for the treacherous sea, infested as they knew it was by horrible creatures which could tear them limb from limb.

Jem had heard a sound at the same moment, and he needed no telling that he should listen.

For from some distance off along the shore there was a faint splash, and, as they strained their eyes in the direction from whence it had come, they could see flashes of pale light, which they knew were caused by paddles.

"It's them, Jem," whispered Don, excitedly. "We must not start yet till the canoe is close up. I wish I had told him that I would make some signal."

"It'll be all right, my lad," said Jem huskily. "Give 'em time. Think the watch 'll see 'em?"

"I hope not," panted Don, as he strained his eyes in the direction of the faintly flashing paddles, which seemed to be moved very cautiously.

"Think it is them, Jem?"

"Who could it be?"

"Might it be a war canoe coming to try and capture the ship?"

"Not it," said Jem sturdily; "it's Ugly, as put out his tongue, coming to help us away. My, Mas' Don, how I should like to chop him under the chin next time he does that pretty trick of his."

"Silence, man! Listen, and look out. Let's get close to the rope first."

They crept softly toward the rope hanging down from the main chains, ready to their hand, and, as they crept, the dark figure that had seemed to be spying over their movements crept too, but on toward the quarter-deck, where the captain and the first lieutenant were lolling over the rail, and talking gently as they smoked—rather a rare custom in those days.

"It's the canoe, Jem," whispered Don; "and it's coming closer."

They strained their eyes to try and make out the men in the long, low vessel, but it was too dark. They could not even hear the plash of a paddle, but they knew that some boat—that of friend or foe—was slowly coming toward the ship, for the flashing of the paddles in the phosphorescent water grew more plain.

"Ready, Jem?"

"Yes, I'm ready, lad. Rope's just where you stand."

"What!" cried the captain's voice loudly, and then there was a quick murmur of talking.

"What's that mean, Mas' Don?"

"Don't know. Some order."

"Boat ahoy!" cried one of the watch forward, and there was a buzz of excitement which told that the paddling of the canoe had been seen.

"Watch there forward!" roared the captain.

"Ay, ay, sir," came back.

"Follow me, Jem; we must swim to her now."

"I'm after you, my lad."

"Jem!" in a tone of despair.

"What is it!"

"The rope's cut!"

"What? So it is. Never mind. After me! There's the one in the forechains."

In the midst of a loud buzz of voices, and the pad, pad—pad, pad of bare feet on the deck, Jem and Don reached the forechains; and Jem ran his hand along in the darkness till he felt the knot by which he had secured the rope.

"Here she is, Mas' Don. Now, then, over with you quick, or I shall be a-top of your head."

"I've got it," whispered Don.

Then in a voice full of despair,—

"This is cut, too!"

At the same moment the captain's voice rang out,—

"Look out there, you in the watch forward; two men are trying to leave the ship!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

WHAT MR. JONES THOUGHT.

"What's to be done, Mas' Don?" whispered Jem, whom this second proof of treachery against them seemed to have robbed of the power to act.

"This way," cried a voice, which they recognised as Ramsden's. "By the forechains."

"Oh, if I had hold of you," snarled Jem, as he ground his teeth.

"Do you hear me?" whispered Don. "Come on."

He spoke from where he stood on the bulwark, holding by one of the shrouds, and offering his hand to Jem, who could not see it, but climbed to his side.

"Header?" he whispered.

"Yes.—Off!"

Don gave the word as he glanced in the direction where he believed the canoe to lie; and then, raising his hands above his head, he sprang right off the bulwark into the sea.

Splash!

A moment's pause and then—

Splash!

Jem had followed suit, and there was a faint display—if the expression is allowable—of water fireworks, as innumerable pinhead-like beads of light flashed away in every direction.

"Lanthorns here!" cried the captain. "Sentries, quick! This way."

He reached the spot from which Don and Jem had taken their daring leap, and in less than a minute the light of a couple of lanthorns was thrown upon the sea.

"Come back!" roared the captain, "or I fire. Marines, make ready."

The lanthorns' light gleamed further on the sea as those who held them clambered up the shrouds and held them at arms' length, and then dimly-seen were the backs of the heads of the two swimmers, who made the water swirl as they struck out with all their might.

"Do you hear, you scoundrels?" roared the captain again. "Come back, or I fire."

There was no reply and the heads began to grow more faint in the gloom, while now the news had spread through the ship, and officers and men came tumbling up the companion ladder and out of their cabins.

"Marines, present—fire!" cried the captain.

There were two sharp clicks and as many tiny showers of sparks. That was all.

"Why, you were not loaded!" cried the captain, fiercely, "Where is the lieutenant? Where is the sergeant? Load, you scoundrels, load!"

The men grounded arms, and began to load quickly, the thudding of their iron ramrods sounding strangely in the still night air.

"Pipe away the first cutter!" cried the captain. "Mr Rogerson, bring those scoundrels back."

The shrill pipe of the boatswain was heard, and there was a rush of feet as the captain shouted again,—

"Present—fire!"

There was a sharp flash, a loud report, and the captain stamped with rage.

"Fire, you scoundrel, fire!" he roared at the second man, who was about to lower his clumsy musket, after tugging in vain at the trigger, when the piece went off, and the bullet fled skyward, sending the nearest lanthorn held up in the shrouds out of its holder's hand, to fall with a splash in the sea, and float for a few moments before it filled and sank, the candle burning till the water touched the wick.

"'Pon my word!" cried the captain. "Nice state of discipline. Now you—fire again. And you, sir, load. Can you see the men, marines?"

"No, sir. Right out of sight."

"Then fire where they were when you saw them last."

"But they won't be there now, sir."

"Silence, you scoundrel! How dare you? Fire!"

Bang.

"Now you: are you ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fire!"

Bang.

"Load again!" cried the captain. "Now, you scoundrels, come back or you shall have a volley."

A strange noise came off the sea.

"Hark! What's that?" cried the captain. "A cry for help!"

"No, sir."

"What was it, then?"

"Beg pardon, sir; but I think it was one on 'em a-larfin'."

The captain gave the speaker—one of the warrant officers—a furious look.

"Now, then, is that boat going to be all night?" he shouted.

"All ready, sir. Lower away."

The boat kissed the sea with a faint splash; she was thrust off; and as the oars dropped and the men gave way the cutter went rapidly through the water, at a rate which would have soon made the fugitives prisoners but for the fact that boat and swimmers were taking different directions, and the distance between them increased at every stroke.

"They've taken no lanthorn!" cried the captain. "Surely no one's orders were ever worse obeyed."

"Shall I call them back, sir?" said the second lieutenant.

"No, no; let them find it out for themselves. Here, marines, ten of you load. Quick, my lads, clear the way from up here."

"Make ready, take good aim at the scoundrels—present—fire!"

This time the whole of the pieces went off with a loud rattle, which brought lights out in the New Zealand village, and a buzz of excitement came from the men.

"More lanthorns there!" cried the captain. "See them?" he cried, to the officer in the boat.

"Not yet, sir."

"Take a sweep round to the southward. They're more there."

"Ay, ay, sir!" came faintly out of the darkness; and the dull rattle of the oars reached those on deck.

"I'll have those two back, dead or alive!" cried the captain, stamping about in his rage. "Pipe down the second cutter."

His orders were obeyed, and in a short time, with a lanthorn in bow and stern, the second boat touched the water, and rowed off, the officer in command receiving instructions to bear off more still to the southward, and finally sweep round so as to meet the first boat.

Directly this was started a happy thought seemed to strike the captain, who had a third boat lowered, with instructions to row right ashore, land the men, and divide them in two parties, which would strike off to right and left, stationing a man at every fifty yards; and these were to patrol the beach to and fro, keeping watch and a sharp look out for the fugitives.

"That will checkmate them, Mr Jones," he said. "I wish I had thought of this before. Now go."

Mr Bosun Jones was in command of this boat, and he gave orders to his men, the oars splashed, and away they went into the darkness, their lights growing fainter and fainter, till they seemed to be mere specks in the distance; but they did not die out, and as those left on deck watched the progress, they saw the lanthorns of the last boat become stationary, and knew that the men had reached the shore, while the lanthorns of the second cutter were faintly visible, moving slowly far away to the south.

The captain rubbed his hands with satisfaction, and kept walking to the gangway and using his night-glass without any greater result than that of seeing a couple of faint specks of light, when he got the boats' lanthorns into the field. Then he listened in the hope of hearing shouts, which would suggest the capture of the fugitives; but half an hour—an hour—glided by, and all was still. The buzz and cries which had arisen from the collection of huts had ceased, and the lights shown there had been extinguished, while the darkness which hung over the sea appeared to grow more dense.

At last there was a hail about a hundred yards away, and the officer in the first boat answered the captain's eager inquiry.

"No, sir; no luck. Not a sign of any one. I'm afraid—"

"They have got ashore and escaped?"

"No, sir," said the lieutenant, gravely; "I don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape."

"Why, the distance is very short!"

"Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way."

"Obstacles?"

"Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him."

A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard.

"Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made."

The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard.

"I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?"

"More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly.

The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat.

"We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later.

"No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself.

"No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too."

"A sound? What sound?"

"Like a faint cry of distress, sir."

"Yes; and what did you make of that?"

The boatswain was silent a moment.

"The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water."

"No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes."

"I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service."

By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again.

About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior.

"See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said.

"No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach."

"Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?"

"Yes, sir, a great deal."

"But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?"

"Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death."

"Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert."

The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect.

But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,—

"Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE FUGITIVES.

Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears.

Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns.

"Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together."

"They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don.

"Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes."

"Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on.

"I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat."

"Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?"

For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire.

"Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck."

"Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out.

"No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?"

"No, Jem; are you?"

"Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along."

"Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?"

"Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?"

"What made you say that?"

"Because here comes a boat after us.—Hear the skipper?"

"Yes; but the canoe—where is the canoe?"

Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles.

"I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night."

They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy.

But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast the long heaving swell, and pass on through the water.

"Better not talk, Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as they swam; "sound goes so easily over the water."

"No, I'm not going to talk," said Don; "I want all my breath for swimming."

"Don't feel tired, do you?"

"Not a bit."

"That's right, lad. Stick to it steady like. Their lanthorns aren't much good. Don't you be skeart; we can see them plain enough, but they can't see us."

"But it seems as if they could," whispered Don, as they saw a man standing up in the bows of one of the boats, holding a lanthorn on high.

"Yes, seems," whispered Jem; "but there's only our heads out of water, and only the tops o' them sometimes. Say, that must ha' been fancy about the canoe."

"No, Jem; she's somewhere about."

"Glad on it: but I wish she'd come and pick us up."

They swam on silently toward the shore, listening to the shouts of the men, and watching alternately the lights of the boats and those of the ship.

All at once a curious noise assailed Don's ear.

"What's the matter, Jem?" he whispered, in alarm.

"Matter?" said Jem, greatly to his relief. "Nothing, as I knows on."

"But that noise you made?"

"I didn't make no noise."

"You did, just now."

"Why, I was a-larfin' quiet-like, so as to make no row."

"Oh!"

"Thinking about them firing a volley at us in the dark. Wonder where the bullets went?"

"Don't talk, Jem; they may hear us."

"What! A whisper like that, my lad? Not they. Boats is a long way off, too, now."

The excitement had kept off all sense of fear, and so far Don had not seemed to realise the peril of their position in swimming through the darkness to land; for even if there had been a canoe coming to their help, the lowering of the boats seemed to have scared its occupants away, and though the sea was perfectly calm, save its soft, swelling pulsation, there were swift currents among the islands and points, which, though easily mastered by canoe or boat with stout rowers, would carry in an imperceptible manner a swimmer far from where he wished to go.

But they swam steadily on for some time longer, Jem being the first to break the silence.

"Say, Mas' Don," he whispered, "did you hear oars?"

"No, Jem."

"I thought I did. I fancy one of the boats put off without a lanthorn. Weren't there three?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Well, you can see two of 'em easy like."

"Yes, Jem; I can see."

"Then there's another cruising about in the dark, so we must be careful."

There was another interval of steady swimming, during which they seemed to get no nearer to the shore, and at last Jem spoke again.

"Say, Mas' Don, don't you feel as if you'd like a cup o' tea?"

"No."

"I do. I'm as dry as sawdus'. S'pose we're nearly there, but I can't touch bottom. I tried just now."

They swam on, with the lights of the boat farther off than ever, and the ship more distant still.

"Getting tired, Jem?"

"N-no. Could go on for about another week. Are you?"

"My clothes seem so heavy. Can you see the shore?"

"I can see the beach right afore us, but can't tell how nigh it is. Never mind about your clothes, my lad; but they're a great noosance at a time like this. Take your strokes long, and slow as you can."

"That's what I'm doing, Jem, but—do you think it's much further?"

"Now, lookye here, Mas' Don; if ever there was a good-tempered chap it was—I mean is—Jem Wimble; but if you gets talking like that, you aggravates me to such a degree that I must speak."

Jem spoke angrily, and with unwonted excitement in his manner.

"Is it much furder, indeed? Why, of course it arn't. Swim steady, and wait."

Jem closed in as much as was possible after raising himself in the water, and scanning the distant shore; and as he did so a cold chill of dread—not on his own account—ran through him, for he felt that they were certainly no nearer shore than they were before.

"Throw your left shoulder a little more forward, Mas' Don," he said calmly; "there's a p'int runs out here, I think, as'll make the journey shorter."

Don obeyed in silence, and they swam on, with Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water.

"Jem," said Don, suddenly.

"Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him.

"Jem."

"Ay, ay, Mas' Don."

"If you escape—"

"If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink."

"Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that—that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?"

"I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady— steady. Bit tired, lad?"

"Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead."

"Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself."

"No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.—Jem, I'm beat out."

"You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under."

Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound.

"And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye—good-bye!"

It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on.

"Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?"

"Jem."

"Yes, lad."

"It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?"

"No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float."

Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck.

"It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away."

"Are they—are they right away, Jem?"

"Yes, my lad, thank goodness!"

Don groaned.

"Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!"

"Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and—kind—but—but I'm done, Jem—I'm done."

"You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall."

Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky.

"There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing."

"Nothing, Jem?"

"Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?"

Don made no reply.

"Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference."

"Jem," said Don, interrupting him.

"Ay, ay, my lad."

"Are the boats very far away?"

"Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile."

"Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."

"Oh, that's it, is it?"

"And tell my mother—"

"Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates."

"No, no; you must swim ashore."

"Without you?"

"Jem, I can do no more."

"If I leaves you, Mas' Don—Ahoy! Boat!—boat!"

Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog.

"Mas' Don, Mas' Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!" cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in.

But even then Don responded to Jem's appeal, and ceased paddling, to make three or four steady strokes.

"That's it! Brave heart! Well done, Mas' Don. We shall manage it yet. A long, steady stroke—that's it. Don't give up. You can do it; and when you're tired, I'll help you. Well done—well done. Hah!"

Jem uttered a hoarse cry, and then his voice rose in a wild appeal for help, not for self, but for his brave young companion.

"Boat! Boat!" he cried, as he heard Don, deaf to his entreaties, begin the wild paddling action again; and he passed his arm beneath his neck, to try and support him.

But there was no reply to his wild hail. The boats were out of hearing, and the next minute the strangling water was bubbling about his lips, choking him as he breathed it in; and with the name of his wife on his lips, poor Jem caught Don in a firm grip with one hand, as he struck wildly out with the other.

Four or five steady strokes, and then his arm seemed to lose its power, and his strokes were feeble.

"Mas' Don," he groaned; "I did try hard; but it's all over. I'm dead beat, too."



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

FRIENDLY ATTENTIONS.

A peculiar pale light played and flashed from the surface of the black water which was being churned up by the desperate struggles of the drowning pair. It was as if myriads of tiny stars started into being where all was dark before, and went hurrying here and there, some to the surface, others deep down into the transparent purity of the sea.

A minute before Jem Wimble had kept command of himself, and swam as a carefully tutored man keeps himself afloat; that minute passed, all teaching was forgotten in a weak, frantic struggle with the strangling water which closed over their heads.

A few moments, during which the phosphorescent tiny creatures played here and there, and then once more the two helpless and nearly exhausted fugitives were beating the surface, which flashed and sent forth lambent rays of light.

But it was not there alone that the phosphorescence of the sea was visible.

About a hundred yards away there was what seemed to be a double line of pale gold liquid fire changing into bluish green, and between the lines of light something whose blackness was greater than the darkness of the sea or night. There was a dull low splashing, and at every splash the liquid fire seemed to fly.

The double line of fire lengthened and sparkled, till it was as so much greenish golden foam reaching more and more toward where the drowning pair were struggling.

Then came a low, growling, grinding sound, as if the long lines of light were made by the beating fins of the dark object, which was some habitant of the deep roused from slumbers by the light of the golden foam formed by those who drowned.

And it rushed on and on to seize its prey, invisible before, but now plainly seen by the struggles and the resulting phosphorescent light.

Long, low, and with its head raised high out of the water, horrent, grotesque and strange, the great sea monster glided along over the smooth sea. Full five-and-twenty fins aside made the water flash as it came on, and there was, as it were, a thin new-moon-like curve of light at its breast, while from its tail the sparkling phosphorescence spread widely as it was left behind.

The low grumbling sound came again, but it was not heard by those drowning, nor was the light seen as it glided on nearer and nearer, till it reached the spot.

One dart from the long raised neck, one snap of the fierce jaws—another dart and another snap, and the sea monster had its prey, and glided rapidly on, probably in search of more in its nightly hunt.

Nothing of the kind! The long creature endued with life darted on, but the long neck and horned head were not darted down, but guided past those who where drowning. Everything was stiff and rigid but the playing fins. But there was another dull, low grunt, the fins seemed to cease by magic; and, instead of being snapped up by the monster's mouth, the two sufferers were drawn in over its side.

Then the water flashed golden again, the monster made a curve and rushed through the water, and sped away for miles till, in obedience to another grunting sound, it turned and dashed straight for a sandy beach, resolving itself into a long New Zealand war canoe, into which Don and Jem had been drawn, to lie half insensible till the beach was neared when Jem slowly and wonderingly sat up.

"Where's Mas' Don?" he said in a sharp ill-used tone.

"Here he is," said a gruff voice, and Jem looked wonderingly in a savage's indistinctly seen face, and then down in the bottom of the long canoe, into which they had been dragged.

"Mas' Don—don't say you're drowned, Mas' Don," he said pitifully, with a Somersetshire man's bold attempt at the making of an Irish bull.

"My pakeha! My pakeha!" said a deep voice; and Jem became aware of the fact that the big chief he had so often seen on board the ship, and who had come to them with the present of fruit when they were guarding the boat, was kneeling down and gently rubbing Don.

"Is he dead?" said Jem in a whisper.

"No, not this time," said the gruff voice out of the darkness. "Pretty nigh touch, though, for both of you. Why didn't you hail sooner?"

"Hail sooner?" said Jem.

"Yes. We came in the canoe to fetch you, but you didn't hail, and it was too dark to see."

"We couldn't hail," said Jem, sulkily. "It would have brought the boats down upon us."

"Ah, so it would," said the owner of the gruff voice. "There's three boats out after you."

"And shall you give us up?"

"Give you up? Not I. I've nothing to do with it; you must talk to him."

"My pakeha!" cried the big chief excitedly.

"That isn't his name, is it?" said Jem.

"No. Nonsense! Pakeha means white man. I was a pakeha once."

"Let me help him up," said Jem eagerly.

"My pakeha! My pakeha!" said the chief, as if putting in a personal claim, and ready to resist Jem's interference.

The difficulty was ended by Don giving himself a shake, and slowly rising.

"Jem! Where's Jem?"

"Here! All right, Mas' Don. We're in the canoe."

"Hah!" ejaculated Don; and he shuddered as if chilled. "Where are the boats?"

"Miles away," said the tattooed Englishman. "But look here, I'm only on board. This is Ngati's doing. I know nothing about you two."

"My pakeha! My pakeha!" cried the chief.

"Lookye here," cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; "if that there chief keeps on saying, 'My pakeha' at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth."

"Ah! You're rusty," said the tattooed Englishman. "Man always is when he's been under water."

"I dunno what you mean by being rusty," said Jem snappishly. "What I say is, leave a man alone."

"All right!" said the Englishman. "I'll let you alone. How's your young mate?"

"My head aches dreadfully," said Don; "and there's a horrible pain at the back of my neck."

"Oh, that'll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?"

"Do?" interrupted Jem. "Why, you don't mean to give us up, do you?"

"I don't mean to do anything or know anything," said the man. "Your skipper'll come to me to-morrow if he don't think you're drowned, or—I say, did you feel anything of 'em?"

"Feel anything—of what?" said Don.

"Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them."

"Sharks!" cried Don and Jem in a breath.

"Yes. Didn't you know?"

"I'd forgotten all about the sharks, Jem," said Don.

"So had I, my lad, or I dursen't have swum for it as we did. Of course I thought about 'em at first starting, but I forgot all about 'em afterwards."

"Jem," said Don, shuddering; "what an escape!"

"Well, don't get making a fuss about it now it's all over, Mas' Don. Here we are safe, but I must say you're the wussest swimmer I ever met.—Here, what are they going to do?"

"Run ashore," said the Englishman, as there was a buzz of excitement among the New Zealanders, many of whom stepped over into the shallow water, and seized the sides of the boat, which was rapidly run up the dark shore, where, amidst a low gobbling noise, the two wet passengers were landed to stand shivering with cold.

"There you are," said the Englishman, "safe and sound."

"Well, who said we weren't?" grumbled Jem.

"Not you, squire," continued the Englishman. "There; I don't know anything about you, and you'd better lie close till the ship's gone, for they may come after you."

"Where shall we hide?" said Don eagerly.

"Oh, you leave it to Ngati; he'll find you a place where you can lie snug."

"Ngati," said the owner of the name quickly, for he had been listening intently, and trying to grasp what was said. "Ngati! My pakeha."

"Oh, I say: do leave off," cried Jem testily. "Pakeha again. Say, Mas' Don, him and I's going to have a row before we've done."

The chief said something quickly to the Englishman, who nodded and then turned to the fugitives.

"Ngati says he will take you where you can dry yourselves, and put on warm things."

"He won't be up to any games, will he?" said Jem.

"No, no; you may trust him. You can't do better than go with him till the search is over."

The Englishman turned to a tall young savage, and said some words to him, with the result that the young man placed himself behind Don, and began to carefully obliterate the footprints left by the fugitives upon the sand.

Don noticed this and wondered, for in the darkness the footprints were hardly perceptible; but he appreciated the act, though he felt no one but a native would distinguish between the footprints of the two people.

"My pakeha," said Ngati just then, making Jem wince and utter an angry gesticulation. "Gunpowder, gun, pow-gun, gun-pow."

"Eh?" said Jem harshly.

"My pakeha, powder-gun. Pow-gun, gun-pow. No?"

"He says his pakeha was to have brought plenty of guns and powder, and he has not brought any."

"No," said Don, shivering as he spoke. "The guns are the king's. I could not bring any."

The New Zealand chief seemed to comprehend a good deal of his meaning, and nodded his head several times. Then making a sign to a couple of followers, each took one of Don's arms, and they hurried him off at a sharp run, Jem being seized in the same way and borne forward, followed by the rest of the men who were in the boat.

"Here, I say. Look here," Jem kept protesting, "I arn't a cask o' sugar or a bar'l o' 'bacco. Let a man walk, can't yer? Hi! Mas' Don, they're carrying on strange games here. How are you getting on?"

Don heard the question, but he was too breathless to speak, and had hard work to keep his feet, leaving everything to the guidance of his companions, who kept on for above a quarter of a mile before stopping in a shadowy gully, where the spreading ferns made the place seem black as night, and a peculiar steaming sulphurous odour arose.

But a short time before Don's teeth were chattering with the cold, but the exercise circulated his blood; and now, as his eyes grew more used to the obscurity, he managed to see that they were in a rough hut-like place open at the front. The sulphurous odour was quite strong, the steam felt hot and oppressive, and yet pleasant after the long chilling effect of the water, and he listened to a peculiar gurgling, bubbling noise, which was accompanied now and then by a faint pop.

He had hardly realised this when he felt that his clothes were being stripped from him, and for a moment he felt disposed to resist; but he was breathless and wearied out, and rough as was the attention, it struck him that it was only preparatory to giving him a dry blanket to wear till his drenched garments were dry, and hence he suffered patiently.

But that was not all, for, as the last garment was stripped off, Ngati said some words to his people, and before he could realise what was going to be done, Don felt himself seized by four men, each taking a wrist or ankle, and holding him suspended before Ngati, who went behind him and supported his head.

"Hah!" ejaculated Ngati, with a peculiar grunt. His men all acted with military precision, and, to Don's astonishment, he found himself plunged into a rocky basin of hot water.

His first idea was to struggle, but there was no need. He had been lowered in rapidly but gently, and he felt Ngati place the back of his head softly against a smooth pleasantly-warm hollowed-out stone, while the sensation, after all he had gone through, was so delicious that he uttered a sigh of satisfaction.

For now he realised the hospitality of the people who had brought him there, and the fact that to recover him from the chill of being half drowned, they had brought him to one of their hot springs, used by them as baths.

Don uttered another sigh of satisfaction, and as he lay back covered to his chin in the hot volcanic water, he began to laugh so heartily that the tears came into his eyes.

For the same process was going on in the darkness with Jem, who was a less tractable patient, especially as he had taken it into his thick head that it was not for his benefit that he was to be plunged into a hot water pool, but to make soup for the New Zealanders around.

"Mas' Don!" he cried out of the darkness, "where are you? I want to get out of this. Here, be quiet, will yer? What yer doing of? I say. Don't. Here, what are you going to do?"

Don wanted to say a word to calm Jem's alarms, but after the agony he had gone through, it seemed to him as if his nerves were relaxed beyond control, and his companion's perplexity presented itself to him in so comical a light, that he could do nothing but lie back there in his delicious bath, and laugh hysterically; and all the while he could hear the New Zealanders gobbling angrily in reply to Jem's objections, as a fierce struggle went on.

"That's your game, is it? I wouldn't ha' thought it of a set who calls theirselves men. Shove me into that hot pot, and boil me, would you? Not if I knows it, you don't. Hi! Mas' Don! Look out! Run, my lad. They're trying to cook me alive, the brutes. Oh, if I only had a cutlash, or an iron bar."

Don tried to speak again, but the words were suffocated by the gurgle of laughter.

"Poor old Jem!" he thought.

"I tell you, you sha'n't. Six to one, eh? Leave off. Mas' Don, they're going to scald me like a pig in a tub. Hi! Help!"

There was the sound of a struggle, a loud splash, and then silence, followed by Jem's voice.

"Oh!" he ejaculated. "Then why didn't you say so? How was I to know you meant a hot bath? Well, it arn't bad.—Mas' Don!"

"Yes."

"What! Ha' you been there all the time?"

"Yes."

"What yer been doing of?"

"Laughing."

"Larfin'? Are they giving you a hot bath?"

"Yes."

"Arn't it good?"

"Glorious!"

"I thought they was going to scald me like a pig, so as to eat me afterwards. Did you hear me holler?"

"Hear you? Yes.—How delicious and restful it feels."

"Ah, it do, my lad; but don't you let any on it get into your mouth. I did, and arn't good. But I say; what's it mean? Seems so rum to me coming to meet us in a canoe and bringing us ashore, and giving us hot baths. I don't seem to understand it. Nobody does such things over at home."

As they lay in the roughly-made stone slab baths, into which the volcanic water effervesced and gurgled, the followers of Ngati came and went busily, and a curious transformation came over the scene—the darkness seemed to undergo a change and become grey. Then as Don watched, he saw that above his head quite a cloud of steam was floating, through which a pale, sad light began to penetrate; and as he watched this, so pleasant and restful was the sensation that he felt as if he could sleep, till he took into consideration the fact that if he did, his body would become relaxed, and he would slip down with his head beneath the surface.

As it grew lighter rapidly now, he could make out that the roughly thatched roof was merely stretched over a rough rocky nook in which the hot spring bubbled out of the mountain slope, and here a few rough slabs had been laid together, box-fashion, to retain the water and form the bath.

Before he had more than realised the fact that Jem was in a shelter very similar to his own, the huge New Zealander was back with about a dozen of his men, and himself bearing a great native flax cloth marked with a broad pattern.

Just as the sun had transformed everything without, and Don was gazing on a glorious prospect of lace-like tree-fern rising out of the steaming gully in which he stood, Jem Wimble came stalking out of the shelter where he had been dressing—a very simple operation, for it had consisted in draping himself in a great unbleached cloth—and looking squat and comical as a man in his circumstances could look.

Ngati was close at hand with his men all standing in a group, and at first sight it seemed as if they were laughing at the little, stoutly-built, pink-faced man, but, on the contrary, they were smiles of admiration.

"I couldn't ha' believed it, Mas' Don," said Jem; "I feel as fresh as a daisy, and—well, I never did! Mas' Don, what a guy you do look!"

Don, after a momentary thought that he looked something like one of the old Romans in a toga, just as he had seen them in an engraving, had been so taken up with the beauty of the ferny gully, with the sun gilding here and there the steamy vapour which rose from the hot springs, that he had thought no more of his personal appearance till Jem spoke.

"Guy?" he said, laughing, as he ran his eye over Jem. "I say, did you ever hear the story of the pot and the kettle?"

"Yes, of course; but I say, my lad, I don't look so rum as you, do I?"

"I suppose you look just about the same, Jem."

"Then the sooner they gets our clothes dry and we're into 'em again, the sooner we shall look like human beings. Say, Mas' Don, it's werry awkward; you can't say anything to that big savage without him shouting 'pakeha.' How shall we ask for our clothes?"

"Wait," said Don. "We've got to think about getting further away."

"Think they'll send to look for us, Mas' Don?"

"I should say they would."

"Well, somehow," said Jem, "I seem to fancy they'll think we're drowned, and never send at all. But, look here; what's all this yaller stuff?"

"Sulphur."

"What, brimstone? Why, so it is. Think o' their buying brimstone to lay down about their hot baths. I know!" cried Jem, slapping his thigh, "they uses it instead of coal, Mas' Don; burns it to make the water hot."

"No, no, Jem; that's natural sulphur."

"So's all sulphur nat'ral."

"But I mean this is where it is found, or comes."

"G'long with you."

"It is, Jem; and that water is naturally hot."

"What, like it is at Bath?"

"To be sure."

"Well, that caps all. Some one said so the other day aboard ship, but I didn't believe it. Fancy a set o' savages having hot water all ready for them. I say, though, Mas' Don, it's very nice."

Just then Ngati came up smiling, but as Jem afterwards said, looking like a figure-head that was going to bite, and they were led off to a whare and furnished with a good substantial meal.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

AN UNWELCOME RECOGNITION.

"It arn't bad," said Jem; "but it's puzzling."

"What is?" said Don, who was partaking of broiled fish with no little appetite.

"Why, how savages like these here should know all about cooking."

The breakfast was eaten with an admiring circle of spectators at hand, while Ngati kept on going from Don to his tribesmen and back again, patting the lad's shoulder, and seeming to play the part of showman with no little satisfaction to himself, but with the effect of making Jem wroth.

"It's all very well, Mas' Don," he said, with his mouth full; "but if he comes and says 'my pakeha' to me, I shall throw something at him."

"Oh, it's all kindly meant, Jem."

"Oh, is it? I don't know so much about that. If it is, why don't they give us back our clothes? Suppose any of our fellows was to see us like this?"

"I hope none of our fellows will see us, Jem."

"Tomati Paroni! Tomati Paroni!" shouted several of the men in chorus.

"Hark at 'em!" cried Jem scornfully. "What does that mean?"

The explanation was given directly, for the tattooed Englishmen came running up to the whare.

"Boats coming from the ship to search for you," he said quickly, and then turned to Ngati and spoke a few words with the result that the chief rushed at the escaped pair, and signed to them to rise.

"Yes," said the Englishman, "you had better go with him and hide for a bit. We'll let you know when they are gone."

"Tell them to give us our clothes," said Jem sourly.

"Yes, of course. They would tell tales," said the Englishman; and he turned again to Ngati, who sent two men out of the whare to return directly with the dried garments.

Ngati signed to them to follow, and he led them, by a faintly marked track, in and out among the trees and the cleared patches which formed the natives' gardens, and all the while carefully avoiding any openings through which the harbour could be seen.

Every now and then he turned to speak volubly, but though he interpolated a few English words, his meaning would have been incomprehensible but for his gestures and the warnings nature kept giving of danger.

For every here and there, as they wound in and out among the trees, they came upon soft, boggy places, where the ground was hot; and as the pressure of the foot sent hissing forth a jet of steam, it was evident that a step to right or left of the narrow track meant being plunged into a pool of heated mud of unknown depth.

In other places the hot mud bubbled up in rounded pools, spitting, hissing, and bursting with faint cracks that were terribly suggestive of danger.

Over these heated spots the fertility and growth of the plants was astounding. They seemed to be shooting up out of a natural hothouse, but where to attempt to pass them meant a terrible and instant death.

"Look out, Mas' Don! This here's what I once heard a clown say, 'It's dangerous to be safe.' I say, figgerhead, arn't there no other way?"

"Ship! Men! Catchee, catchee," said Ngati, in a whisper.

"Hear that, Mas' Don? Any one'd think we was babbies. Ketchy, ketchy, indeed! You ask him if there arn't no other way. I don't like walking in a place that's like so much hot soup."

"Be quiet, and follow. Hist! Hark!"

Don stopped short, for, from a distance, came a faint hail, followed by another nearer, which seemed to be in answer.

"They're arter us, sir, and if we're to be ketched I don't mean to be ketched like this."

"What are you going to do, Jem?"

"Do?" said Jem, unrolling his bundled-up clothes, and preparing to sit down, "make myself look like an ornery Chrishtun."

"Don't sit down there, Jem!" cried Don, as Ngati gave a warning cry at the same moment, and started back.

But they were too late, for Jem had chosen a delicately green mossy and ferny patch, and plumped himself down, to utter a cry of horror, and snatch at the extended hands. For the green ferny patch was a thin covering over a noisome hole full of black boiling mud, into which the poor fellow was settling as he was dragged out.

"Fah!" ejaculated Jem, pinching his nose. "Here, I've had 'most enough o' this place. Nice sort o' spot this would be to turn a donkey out to graze. Why, you wouldn't find nothing but the tips of his ears to-morrow morning."

Another hail rang out, and was answered in two places.

"I say, Mas' Don, they're hunting for us, and we shall have to run."

He made signs to the chief indicative of a desire to run, but Ngati shook his head, and pointed onward.

They followed on, listening to the shouts, which came nearer, till Ngati suddenly took a sharp turn round a great buttress of lava, and entered a wild, narrow, forbidding-looking chasm, where on either side the black, jagged masses of rock were piled up several hundred feet, and made glorious by streams which coursed among the delicately green ferns.

"Look's damp," said Jem, as Ngati led them on for about fifty yards, and then began to climb, his companions following him, till he reached a shelf about a hundred feet up, and beckoned to them to come.

"Does he think this here's the rigging of a ship, and want us to set sail?" grumbled Jem. "Here, I say, what's the good of our coming there?"

The chief stamped his foot, and made an imperious gesture, which brought them to his side.

He pointed to a hole in the face of the precipice, and signed to them to go in.

"Men—boat," he said, pointing, and then clapping his hand to his ear as a distant hail came like a whisper up the gully, which was almost at right angles to the beach.

"He wants us to hide here, Jem," said Don; and he went up to the entrance and looked in. A hot, steamy breath of air came like a puff into his face, and a strange low moaning noise fell upon his ear, followed by a faint whistle, that was strongly suggestive of some one being already in hiding.

"I suppose that's where they keeps their coals, Mas' Don," said Jem. "So we've got to hide in the coal-cellar. Why not start off and run?"

"We should be seen," said Don anxiously. "Don't let us do anything rash."

"But p'r'aps it's rash to go in there, my lad. How do we know it isn't a trap, or that it's safe to go in?"