enty years, who was smiling broadly as if he
thought it a great joke to wake a man out of a sound sleep on a hot
afternoon.

"Are you Jack Verslun?" he asked.

I nodded. It was too warm to use words recklessly.

"Pierre the Rat sent me after you," he continued.

"Why?" I asked.

"I have a berth for you," he answered. "I'm from _The Waif_. The mate
died on the run down from Sydney, and Captain Newmarch sent me ashore to
hunt up some one for his perch. Do you want it?"

"Where are you bound?" I asked.

"Manihiki group."

"What for?"

"Science expedition under the direction of Professor Herndon of San
Francisco."

I sat up and looked across the stretch of water at _The Waif_, and the
young fellow waited patiently. I knew the yacht. An English baronet had
brought the vessel out from Cowes to Brisbane, but he had made the pace
too hot in the Colonies. Out in Fortitude Valley one night the keeper of
a saloon fired a bullet into his aristocratic head, and _The Waif_ was
auctioned. She had taken a hand in a number of games after that. A fast
yacht is a handy vessel south of the line, and some queer tales were
told about the boat that had once shown her heels to the crackerjacks in
the Solent. But I couldn't afford to be particular at that moment.
Levuka isn't the spot where a man can pick and choose, so I wiped the
shell grit from my drill suit and told myself that I had better accept
the berth instead of waiting in expectation of something better turning
up. Pierre the Rat, who ran "The Rathole," where penniless seamen and
beachcombers lodged, was my creditor, and when Pierre was very
solicitous in obtaining employment for one of his boarders, it was a
mighty good intimation that the boarder's credit had reached highwater
mark.

"Well," I said, climbing to my feet, "I might as well take it. I thought
I had enough of the Islands, but as this has turned up I'm your man.
Say," I added, "did you ever read Pilgrim's Progress'?"

The young fellow looked at me and grinned. "Yes, I did," he answered.

"Do you remember much of it?" I asked.

"Not much," he replied.

"Is there anything in it about a white waterfall that is on the way to
heaven out of Black Fernando's hell?" I questioned.

The youngster put his head on one side and looked as if he was turning
things over in his mental storehouse, then he gave me a quick, shrewd
glance and burst out laughing.

"Well?" I growled. "What's the grin for?"

"What has B