king for a job, with every appearance of
poverty and misery."

"But," cried the lad in surprise, "what can that all imply? Do you
suppose he's just some sort of a conspirator, or swindler, sometimes
rich and sometimes poor, according to the hauls he has made?"

"Well," said the botanist, "sometimes I have thought he is the sort of
man who would have been a privateer in the old days, a 'gentleman
buccaneer.' Maybe he is still, but in a different way. Sometimes, I have
thought that he was attached to the Secret Service of some government."

"English?"

"Probably not," the scientist answered, "because he is too English for
that. No, he is so English that I thought he must be for some other
government and was just playing the English part to throw off
suspicion."

"German?"

"It's not unlikely."

Whereupon Stuart remembered the guarded way in which the Managing Editor
had spoken of "European Powers," and this thought of Cecil threw him
back upon his quest.

"I'll soon have to be going on to Trinidad," he suggested a day or two
later. "I think I'm strong enough to travel, now."

"Yes," the old botanist answered, "you're strong enough to travel, but
you'd better not go just now."

"Why not?"

"Well----" the old West Indian resident cast a look at the sky, "there
are a good many reasons. Unless I'm much mistaken, there's wind about,
big wind, hurricane wind, maybe. I've been feeling uneasy, ever since
noon yesterday. Do you see those three mares'-tail high-cirrus clouds?"

"You mean those that look like feathers, with the quills so much thicker
than usual?"

"Yes, those. And you notice that those quills, as you call them, are not
parallel, but all point in the same direction, like the sticks of a fan?
That means a big atmospheric disturbance in that direction, and it
means, too, that it must be a gyrating one. That type of cirrus clouds
isn't proof of a coming hurricane, not by a good deal, but it's one of
the signs. And, if it comes, the center of it is now just about where
those mares'-tails are pointing."

"You're really afraid of a hurricane!" exclaimed Stuart, a little
alarmed at the seriousness of the old man's manner.

"There are few things in the world of which one ought more to be
afraid!" declared the old scientist dryly. "A hurricane is worse, far
worse, than an earthquake, sometimes."

Stuart sat silent for a moment, then,

"Are there any more signs?" he asked.

"Yes," was the quiet answer.