o them merely a piece of work that
had to be done, just as clearing the jungle, ditching the water, and
planting cotton were pieces of work that had to be done. Schemmer jerked
the cord, and Ah Cho forgot "The Tract of the Quiet Way." The knife shot
down with a thud, making a clean slice of the tree.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the sergeant, pausing in the act of lighting a
cigarette. "Beautiful, my friend."

Schemmer was pleased at the praise.

"Come on, Ah Chow," he said, in the Tahitian tongue.

"But I am not Ah Chow--" Ah Cho began.

"Shut up!" was the answer. "If you open your mouth again, I'll break
your head."

The overseer threatened him with a clenched fist, and he remained
silent. What was the good of protesting? Those foreign devils always had
their way. He allowed himself to be lashed to the vertical board that
was the size of his body. Schemmer drew the buckles tight--so tight that
the straps cut into his flesh and hurt. But he did not complain. The
hurt would not last long. He felt the board tilting over in the air
toward the horizontal, and closed his eyes. And in that moment he caught
a last glimpse of his garden of meditation and repose. It seemed to him
that he sat in the garden. A cool wind was blowing, and the bells in
the several trees were tinkling softly. Also, birds were making sleepy
noises, and from beyond the high wall came the subdued sound of village
life.

Then he was aware that the board had come to rest, and from muscular
pressures and tensions he knew that he was lying on his back. He opened
his eyes. Straight above him he saw the suspended knife blazing in the
sunshine. He saw the weight which had been added, and noted that one
of Schemmer's knots had slipped. Then he heard the sergeant's voice in
sharp command. Ah Cho closed his eyes hastily. He did not want to see
that knife descend. But he felt it--for one great fleeting instant. And
in that instant he remembered Cruchot and what Cruchot had said. But
Cruchot was wrong. The knife did not tickle. That much he knew before he
ceased to know.

MAKE WESTING

Whatever you do, make westing! make westing!
--Sailing directions for Cape Horn.

For seven weeks the Mary Rogers had been between 50 degrees south in the
Atlantic and 50 degrees south in the Pacific, which meant that for seven
weeks she had been struggling to round Cape Horn. For seven weeks
she had been either in dirt, or close to dirt, save o