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In less time than it takes to skin an acquadatoric, Dingy David was in the rowing-boat making for the shore of the mainland.

Sixty-eight hours of hard rowing, without a rest, brought the strong young fellow to the coast.

It was night.

A light burned in the window of the lonely cottage that stood upon the shore.

It was the work of a moment for Dingy David to seize upon the beautiful maiden who was writing jam labels, by the light of a solitary candle.

Such are the lives of the humble.

Without a glance at her face, he carried her at breakneck speed to the boat—pushed off, and rowed like Hercules for the island.

Exactly one hundred and thirty-six hours—which is five days sixteen hours from the time he started—David brought the captive beauty and laid her, senseless with fatigue, at the feet of Tom Tomb.

"What have we here?" asked Tomb, pronouncing the H very clearly.

"A charwoman, sire," responded David; and, smiling, the lad fell asleep.

When he awoke the sun was shining and the day was warm.

One glance showed him that the cottage was a model of cleanliness.

(Pirates are sharp glancers.)