rtily; "and our present
business is to discover just such cases as you describe. Although the
_Merab_ is, as you see, a private yacht, in which we happened to put
into New Orleans during a winter cruise to the southward, she is at
present in the service of the Red Cross Society, of which I am a
member, and devoted to the relief of sufferers by this awful flood.
May I ask your name? Mine is Coffin--Tristram Coffin; though I am
better known as Breeze McCloud, and that of my friend (here he turned
to another young man, also in navy blue) is Mr. Wolfe Brady."

Half an hour later the beautiful _Merab_ lay at anchor as near the
stranded raft as it was safe to venture, and its occupants were being
transferred to her hospitable deck by one of her boats. Another boat,
laden with provisions, was on its way to the starving refugees in the
great house.

The young owner of the _Merab_ insisted that all those who came from
the raft should be his guests, at least for that night.

The invitation was accepted as promptly and heartily as it had been
given, and soon afterwards two very hungry but very merry parties sat
down to bountiful dinners in two entirely distinct parts of the yacht.

Along the mess-table of the galley--or the "camboose," as the yacht's
cook insisted upon calling it--were ranged three gentlemen of color,
each of whom treated his companions with the greatest deference, though
at the same time believing himself to be just a little better posted in
culinary matters than either of the others.

"Dish yer wha' I calls a mighty scrumptious repas'," exclaimed Solon,
after a long silence devoted to appeasing the pangs of his hunger.
"But fo' de true ole-time cookin' gib me de Moss Back kitchin befo' de
wah."

"I specs dat ar' berry good in hits way," remarked Quorum; "same time I
hain't nebber eat nuffin kin compare wif de cookin' er dem Seminyole
Injuns what libs in de Ebberglades. Dat's whar I takin my lesson."

"Sho, gen'l'muns! 'pears to me lak you don't nebber go on er deep-sea
v'yge whar you gets de genuwine joe-flogger, an' de plum-duff, an' sich
like," said Nimbus, the yacht's cook. "Ef you had, you wouldn' talk."

In the luminous after-saloon the other party was seated at a table
white with snowy damask, and gleaming with silver, which was at once
the pride and care of old Mateo, the Portuguese steward.

It was a party so overflowing with merriment and laughter, jokes and
stories, that from one end of