s back and
allowed himself to rise gently until nothing but his face appeared above
the surface. By this means he was enabled to draw a full breath, and
then, causing himself to sink, he swam under water to the other side of
the schooner, and rose under her quarter.

Here he paused a minute to breathe, then glided with noiseless strokes
to the main chains, which he seized hold of, and, under their shelter,
listened intently for at least five minutes.

Not a sound was to be heard on board save the footsteps of the solitary
watchman who slowly paced the deck, and now and then beguiled the tedium
of his vigil by humming a snatch of a sea song.

Gascoyne now felt assured that the crew were ashore, enjoying
themselves, as they were wont to do, in one of the artificial caverns
where their goods were concealed. He knew, from his own former
experience, that they felt quite secure when once at anchor in the
harbor of the Isle of Palms; it was therefore probable that all of them
had gone ashore except this man, who had been left to take care of the
vessel.

Gascoyne now drew himself slowly up into the chains, and remained there
for a few seconds in a stooping position, keeping his head below the
level of the bulwarks while he squeezed the water out of his lower
garments. This done, he waited until the man on deck came close to where
he stood, when he sprang on him with the agility of a tiger, threw him
down, and placed his hand on his mouth.

"It will be your wisest course to be still, my man," said Gascoyne,
sternly. "You know who I am, and you know what I can do when occasion
requires. If you shout when I remove my hand from your mouth, you die."

The man seemed to be quite aware of the hopelessness of his case; for he
quietly submitted to have his mouth bound with a handkerchief, and his
hands and feet tied with cords. A few seconds sufficed to accomplish
this, after which Gascoyne took him up in his arms as if he had been a
child, carried him below, and laid him on one of the cabin lockers.
Then, dragging a sheet off one of the beds, he sprang up on deck and
waved it over the stern.

"That's the signal for me," said Corrie, who had watched for it eagerly.
"Now, Uncle Ole, mind you obey orders: you are rather inclined to be
mutinous, and that won't pay to-night. If you don't look out, Gascoyne
will pitch into you, old boy."

Master Corrie indulged in these impertinent remarks while he was
stripping off his jacket and