the better of white people you are out of your class."

The little beach-comber (he was scarcely above five feet) rubbed his
chafed wrists, and fixed Wilbur with his tiny, twinkling eyes.

"What you do now?"

"We go home. I'm going to maroon you and your people here on this beach.
You deserve that I should let you eat your fists by way of table-board;
but I'm no such dirt as you. When our men left the schooner they brought
off with them a good share of our provisions. I'll leave them here
for you--and there's plenty of turtle and abalone to be had for the
catching. Some of the American men-of-war, I believe, come down to this
bay for target-practice twice a year, and if we speak any on the way up
we'll ask them to call here for castaways. That's what I'll do for you,
and that's all! If you don't like it, you can set out to march up the
coast till you hit a town; but I wouldn't advise you to try it. Now what
have you got to say?"

Hoang was silent. His queue had become unbound for half its length, and
he plaited it anew, winking his eyes thoughtfully.

"Well, what do you say?" said Moran.

"I lose face," answered Hoang at length, calmly.

"You lose face? What do you mean?"

"I lose face," he insisted; then added: "I heap 'shamed. You fightee my
China boy, you catchee me. My boy no mo' hab me fo' boss--savvy? I go
back, him no likee me. Mebbe all same killee me. I lose face--no mo'
boss."

"What a herd of wild cattle!" muttered Wilbur.

"There's something in what he says, don't you think, mate?" observed
Moran, bringing a braid over each shoulder and stroking it according to
her habit.

"We'll ask Jim about it," decided Wilbur.

But Jim at once confirmed Hoang's statement. "Oh, Kai-gingh killum
no-good boss, fo' sure," he declared.

"Don't you think, mate," said Moran, "we'd better take him up to 'Frisco
with us? We've had enough fighting and killing."

So it was arranged that the defeated beach-comber, the whipped
buccaneer, who had "lost face" and no longer dared look his men in the
eye, should be taken aboard.

By four o'clock next morning Wilbur had the hands at work digging the
sand from around the "Bertha Millner's" bow. The line by which she was
to be warped off was run out to the ledge of the rock; fresh water was
taken on; provisions for the marooned beach-combers were cached upon
the beach; the dory was taken aboard, gaskets were cast off, and hatches
battened down.

At high tide, all hands