'A,'" answered I. "'"A" was an archer and shot at a beau.'"

"Shot with a bow, you mean," said Cynthia; "but, really, the words run, '"A" was an archer and shot at a frog.'"

"Thank you," said I. Of course, she knew what I had in mind. I said it every time she came on deck. I made a point of it. I thought that she might get used to it after a while.

"You haven't been up all day," said I reproachfully.

"There's no variety in your conversation, Mr. Jones," said Cynthia. "The parrot is much more interesting. But when you called down that Christophe's castle was in sight, I thought that perhaps you were in your right mind once more."

"If my present mind's wrong, I shall never be right," said I, as I hove the wheel over to larboard to keep the Yankee Blade on her course.

"Archer's so much prettier than Jones," said Cynthia in a dreamy, convincing tone. She reached out her hand and took the glass from me. Her touch was like a magnet. I couldn't have held it back to save my life. She stepped to the rail and rested the barrel of the glass upon one of the ratlines.

"Now where's your castle?" she asked; and added, "How this ship rolls!"

"The wind is falling light," I said. "Seems to me we're farther in shore than we ought to be.—Tomkins, did you keep her exactly on the course the Captain gave you?"

"Yessir," said Tomkins, without winking.

"Now where is it?" asked Cynthia.

I called one of the men to take the wheel and went to Cynthia's side. I guided the glass very slowly to within a hair's breadth of the imposing structure, ran it hurriedly past, so that the view was all in a blur, then I searched slowly and carefully for the thing that we had passed by. Cynthia was not long deceived.

"Give me that glass, Mr. Jones," she said with dignity. "I will find the citadel if it is there."

"It is there, upon my soul!" said I. I saw that she was angry. "There! Don't you see that big pile of stone?"

"Where?"

"There! Just there!"

"Is—that—Christophe's castle? What—a—big—thing—it—is! Why—Mr.—Jones—you—never—told—me—half! How—I—should—like—to—go—there!"

"God forbid!" said I, and I shuddered.

"Hand me that glass!" said the Skipper, who had tumbled up from below. He laid a heavy hand upon the spyglass and took it without ceremony. He could. He was her Uncle. He could call her Cynthia, too. I could only think it. The Skipper wheeled about and looked out to sea.

"Here, you, Mr. Jones!" said the Skipper, his gaze fixed on the stranger, "what did you do with that Cook?"

"The Cook?" said I inquiringly.

The Skipper removed the glass from his eyes.

"Didn't I tell you that pudding wasn't fit to give to a dog?"

"Yes, you did, sir, but the man did his best. I thin——"

"Mr. Jones, am I Captain of this vessel, or am I not?"

An acquiescent nod from me.

"Very well, then! You go below, Mr. Jones, and you take Bill Tomkins and the Growler, and you take that pudding, and you put it in the brig, and you take that Cook and you set him alongside of it, and you lock the door, and don't you let either of 'em come out until one of 'em's inside of the other!"

"Yes, sir," said I, and I went below to carry out his orders.

I closed the door of the brig, leaving the Cook sitting in the hot little place, looking ruefully at the nauseous mess that he had tried to force on the cabin table. I suddenly remembered something that I wanted done about the men's mess gear, and returned along the companion way. It was evident that I was not expected, for I heard some words, not overcomplimentary to myself, proceeding from the Growler, who had lingered behind; and he added, calling out to the Cook:

"Never mind, doctor,[A] you will be ashore in less than an hour."

When I came on deck again the Skipper had the glass glued to his eyes.

"Did he eat it?" asked the Skipper.

"No, sir, not yet," said I. "He'd just had his dinner."

The Skipper did not seem to listen to my answer. He handed the glass to me and pointed seaward.

"Don't like the looks of that vessel out there, Jones. She's been crawling up on us for the last hour. Looks as if she was trying to head us off. About three points forward of the beam now, I should say. Isn't this vessel off her course, Jones?"

He walked over to the binnacle, and took a look at the compass.

"No, you're right. But we certainly are farther in shore than I expected we would be. Head her up, man, head her up!"

"Tomkins had the wheel while I was below," said I. "He said he kept her just as you told him. That stranger's flying the English flag." The Skipper shook his head, looked at the Union Jack, and then over the side of the Yankee Blade.

"Didn't know there was any currents around here. Strange! Strange!"

Cynthia stood sniffing and wrinkling up her handsome nose.

"What is it smells so sweet?" she asked.

"The land," said I.

"Yes, I know, of course. But I never smelled land so sweet as this before. Now, off Martin——"

"The wind has fallen light, Captain," said I.

"How monotonous you are," said Cynthia, "not to call it——"

"Damn the wind!" said the Skipper. He wet his finger in his mouth and held it up.

"Why don't you throw the cat overboard, and shoot an albatross?" questioned Cynthia, who was versed in sea lore.

"The cat was left behind at Martinique," replied the Skipper. "I guess with some of those girls Jones was hanging round, and any fool knows that no one ever saw an albatross in these waters."

"Well, please don't damn the wind, Uncle, while I'm on board." Cynthia spoke with some asperity, and turned her back squarely on me. "You know very well you promised Aunt Mary 'Zekel——"

"Damning the wind ain't anything; want a blow!" said the Skipper.

"Do we? Why?"

"That's our safety," growled he, with his eyes glued to the glass.

"Are you really afraid, Uncle Antony?"

"Well, no, not what you might call afraid. Wouldn't be very agreeable to be taken prisoner just now. Damn if I don't believe that's a letter of marque, that fellow!"

I laughed.

"Don't be afraid, Miss Archer," I said; "there are no letters of marque nowadays."

"Oh, do let me see! I hope he is one. I never saw a letter of marque."

The Skipper growled in my ear, "Pirates are just as bad."

"Will he take my cassava bread, and capture Solomon?"

"He'll capture you and the whole bilin' if we don't get ahead a little faster. I'd like to head her up. Can't, till we pass those nubbles on the starboard bow. Jones, we may have some tough work. You go below and get a bite, while I take the deck. May have to run."

"Where to?" asked Cynthia.

"Ashore, I guess," answered the Skipper. Most girls would have fainted.

"I'd better go below and pack my bag," said Cynthia. She turned to me condescendingly. "I'll give you something, Mr. Jones, if you choose to come."

Choose to come! I would have followed her to a much warmer interior. The cabin was close and stuffy. There were some cushioned seats on either side of the table, just too far from it to allow one to eat comfortably. The most of my bread dropped, between my knees and rolled away on the deck.