yes were sunken and dim. On a locker close by
him sat a young boy with a book before him, from which he was in vain
endeavouring to read. I saw that Natty had been crying, for tears
bedewed the page. He was the captain's only son. His mother was dead,
and rather than leave him on shore to the care of strangers, his father
had brought him on this African voyage. "It was a choice of two evils,"
he said to me one day. "The boy's constitution is good, and we must not
let him be exposed to the night air or hot suns up the rivers, and he
will probably stand the climate better than most of us." Such indeed
had been the case, and Natty had been well, and had until now been full
of life and spirits--the favourite of all on board. He and my young
cousin Leonard soon struck up a friendship, and were of course always
together. For once Natty had left his friend to remain by the side of
his father. The captain had been speaking to him, for his voice ceased
as I appeared.

I replied to the captain's question, "No signs of a change, Captain
Page. We hove the lead, but found no bottom. We must still be some
distance off the coast."

"I trust so," was the answer. "Heave the lead every quarter of an hour,
and let me know when we are in soundings. Take another cast at once,
and then come back."

I told the mate. "Why, I did so not twenty minutes ago," he answered.
"What does the old man want us to do it again for?"

"The captain knows this coast well, Mr Kydd," I answered. "We may be
thankful to get an anchor to hold as soon as we get into shallow water."

Seeing the mate did not seem disposed to obey, I took the lead, and
calling to two of the hands, prepared to heave it.

"No, no," observed Kydd, "that is my work;" and taking the lead from me,
hove it carelessly. "No bottom," he answered; "I should think not,
indeed, out here."

It appeared to me that as the line ran out the whole length, he could
not be mistaken. Returning to the cabin, I made my report to the
captain. "Andrew," he said, "sit down; I want to have a few words with
you. I am going to that haven whence I shall never come back. I feel
that I shall not hold on much longer to life. I have not been a
successful man, and leave my boy but ill-provided for. As to my
friends, there are none that I can think of who are able to help him;
and the few acquaintances I have who could do so, I cannot trust. The
thought of what will become of my orphan boy