he was reviewing the "old days." The tale of Buck M'Cann had
recalled them, and across all the salt seas he could see the moonlight
on the Connemara mountains, and hear the seagulls crying on the
thunderous beach where each wave has behind it three thousand miles of
sea.

Suddenly Mr Button came back from the mountains of Connemara to find
himself on the deck of the Shenandoah; and he instantly became
possessed by fears. Beyond the white deserted deck, barred by the
shadows of the standing rigging, he could see the door of the caboose.
Suppose he should suddenly see a head pop out or, worse, a shadowy form
go in?

He turned to the deck-house, where the children were sound asleep, and
where, in a few minutes, he, too, was sound asleep beside them, whilst
all night long the brig rocked to the gentle swell of the Pacific, and
the breeze blew, bringing with it the perfume of flowers.

CHAPTER X

THE TRAGEDY OF THE BOATS

When the fog lifted after midnight the people in the long-boat saw the
quarter-boat half a mile to starboard of them.

"Can you see the dinghy?" asked Lestrange of the captain, who was
standing up searching the horizon.

"Not a speck," answered Le Farge. "DAMN that Irishman! but for him I'd
have got the boats away properly victualled and all; as it is I don't
know what we've got aboard. You, Jenkins, what have you got forward
there?"

"Two bags of bread and a breaker of water," answered the steward.

"A breaker of water be sugared!" came another voice; "a breaker half
full, you mean."

Then the steward's voice: "So it is; there's not more than a couple of
gallons in her."

"My God!" said Le Farge. "DAMN that Irishman!"

"There's not more than'll give us two half pannikins apiece all round,"
said the steward.

"Maybe," said Le Farge, "the quarter-boat's better stocked; pull for
her."

"She's pulling for us," said the stroke oar.

"Captain," asked Lestrange, "are you sure there's no sight of the
dinghy?"

"None," replied Le Farge.

The unfortunate man's head sank on his breast. He had little time to
brood over his troubles, however, for a tragedy was beginning to unfold
around him, the most shocking, perhaps, in the annals of the sea--a
tragedy to be hinted at rather than spoken of.

When the boats were within hailing distance, a man in the bow of the
long-boat rose up.

"Quarter-boat ahoy!"

"Ahoy!"

"How much water have you?"

"None!"

The word came floating over the