quired if there was no way of sending any note or message
to the ship, and was disgusted to find that there was none that day.
The bar had risen again in the afternoon, and there was no prospect of
any one from the shipping in the roadstead coming ashore. So I left a
note for the captain, expressing--well, a great deal more than I could
ever have told in so many words.

I was up in good time next morning, and had just got outside of a muddy
concoction whose principal flavour was wood-fire smoke, and was
euphemistically termed coffee, when Brian Matterson drove up in a Cape
cart.

"Hallo, Holt," he sang out. "You're in training early. You see, with
us a fellow has to turn out early, if only that everybody else does,
even if he himself has nothing particular to do. Well, in this case I
might have given you a little longer, because I've got to pick up a
thing or two at the store, and it won't be open just yet, and then my
little sister's coming to have a look at me at the pontoon by way of
good-bye. She's staying with some people down here at a seaside camp--I
brought her down when I came four days ago--and wants to say good-bye,
you know. She's a dear little kid, and I wouldn't disappoint her for
anything. Now trot out your luggage, and we'll splice it on behind."

We got hold of a sable myrmidon who was "boots" and general handyman
about the place, a queer good-humoured aboriginal with his wool grown
long and standing out like unravelled rope around his head, and having
hauled out my new trunk, bound it on behind the trap with the regulation
raw hide _reim_. Then we thought we might as well have some breakfast
before starting, and did.

It was about seven o'clock when we started, but the sun's rays were
already manifest, even through the shelter of the canvas awning. The
horses, a pair of flea-bitten roans, were not much to look at, being
smallish, though sturdy and compact, but in hard condition, and up to
any amount of work. We picked up some things at the store, and then it
seemed to me we had hardly started before we pulled up again. There was
the white of a sunshade by the roadside, and under it the flutter of a
feminine dress. I recognised one of the girls who had come out to meet
the little one to whose aid I had so opportunely come the day before,
and--great heavens!--with her was my little friend herself.

"Hallo, Iris," sung out Brian Matterson. "Get up, now; I've got to take
you back. Just h