t. They had the look of desperation in
their faces, as they threw furtive glances back at the spectre, the
Ship of Death--The Black Coffin--we called him now.

At high noon, we met an American warship. His crew crowded to his
decks and gave cheer after cheer in sympathy for our desperate plight.
The big greyhound of the sea was chasing the rabbit he had bitten and
maimed, and the sympathy was with the weak. By night the nervous
strain had become almost a frenzy. Then to add to our peril, the coal
in the bunkers was running low. Something must happen in our favor
soon. Our signal still flashed from the half funnel--our signal of
distress--and by midnight we called it our funeral candle. The sky was
clear now and the stars were shining. We could see lights flash now
and then through the haze of the sea. When morning came there he was
big, black, hideous--still in our wake.

Coal for eight more hours only. Surely something would happen; help
must come, out of the sea, out of the sky, out of somewhere, only it
must come. The sea was smooth; not a ship could be seen on the
horizon. All on board were in restless anxiety. Only coal for three
more hours.

We were now off Ecuador. The officer in command called the crew.

"We shall have to surrender the boat," he said.

The assistant engineer, two stokers and myself, all of us British,
shouted "Never! We are not here to lay in a Chilean prison and perhaps
be shot! We beach the boat!" Our emphasis was our drawn revolvers.

Without a word, the officer headed the boat for the shore. We gathered
up a few edibles and when we grounded the boat, swam to the beach. The
officer lingered for some time after all were ashore, then hurried
over her sides and made his escape. The Chilean cruiser launched her
boat, eight sailors to each side of rowlocks, an ensign and a party of
marines. They rowed rapidly to the torpedo boat and half of them
climbed on board, when her sides parted and a terrific flame shot
upward, bearing the bodies of a dozen men. The officer had lit the
fuse that did the work.

Ten days afterwards the two stokers, assistant engineer and myself,
footsore and ragged, went on board the British mail steamer at
Guayaquil and presented ourselves to the gruff old captain.

"Get below in the stoke-hole and black up," he said, "the Chilean
government offers five thousand dollars reward for each of you. If we
are searched you are stokers."

Meanwhile, on board another ship