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"What does he carry that ridiculous picture all around the world for?" I growled.

Cynthia turned and looked at the coloured picture of a falcon which hung in its frame at the end of the small cabin.

"Doesn't he look foolish? He's so out of drawing. He makes me seasick," said I.

"It is an excellent picture," said Cynthia.

"And a plain Yankee skipper coming to sea with a coat of arms and a motto. It's positively silly!"

"It belongs to him just as much as his name does. I can't see why he shouldn't bring it. It isn't a coat of arms, either. You can't say such things to me about the hooded hawk, Mr. Jones, though I am not a Schuyler exactly. But I have a great respect for the family."

"And a Latin text," I added.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Mr. Jones. Even the bird will be shocked. Do you know what the motto means?"

"It's Latin," I answered. That was conclusive. At Belleville we had other things to do besides study Latin.

She turned on her transom and surveyed the coat of arms, her head on one side, her handsome eyes screwed out of all shape. They rested upon a very fat bird holding with difficulty to a wrist to which it bore no proportion. The wrist was as large as the trunk of a tree.

"Aunt Mary 'Zekel did it," said Cynthia. "Uncle says it means, 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush'—the motto, I mean."

"Well, so it is," I answered. "A bird in a white sunbonnet is worth——"

"William Brown is waiting at home on the dock for me," said Cynthia, as she removed the sunbonnet.

I sat silent and drained my cup.

"Have some more coffee, Mr. Jones?" She took my cup and replenished it.

"I said that William Brown is waiting on the dock for me."

"He can't; a dock's a hole."

"Well, anyway, he's waiting." A short silence, during which she wrinkled her forehead.

"Wharf, then! William Brown's——"

"I should think Brown was synonymous with synopsis," said I absent-mindedly.

"Some people have no dictionary knowledge," sniffed Cynthia. "He is, really."

"Is what?"

"Waiting. We're going to keep house."

"On what?"

"What? On what?"

"Keep house on what?"

"Well, I'm going to begin with the parrot. That's what I got him for."

"Stew him first day. What'll you do next?"

"I decline to talk with you," said Cynthia, twisting huffily around on the old red plush cushion. "William may be very rich some day. His great aunt was a Schuyler. He has a share in the Belleville copper mines."[B]

"You still have faith in them, have you? Now, Miss Archer, let me tell you——"

Plim! Splash! The water was dashed through the open stern ports.

"What was that?" said Cynthia, rising. "A whale or a hurricane?" And then, as she sat looking questioningly at me, we heard a report. The report of a gun. This was followed by the pounding of the Skipper's feet on the deck above our heads. Cynthia ran out of the cabin door and up the companion way to the poop. I heard her calling as she went: "Don't be afraid, Uncle Tony! I'm coming."

"Where's Jones?" I heard him growl, as I followed close at his heels.

"Fainted away in the cabin."

"Damn coward!"

"What's the matter?" said I.

Bill Ware had let go the wheel, and the vessel was yawing round. We were in the trough of the sea.

The Captain seemed incapable through astonishment. I jumped to the wheel and got her on her course again.

"That damn fellow fired at me across our bows. Next he'll cut us amidships."

"Shouldn't wonder," said Cynthia, "if he takes the stern for the bow."

She stood looking calmly at the approaching vessel.

"I should think he'd fire straighter than that. Looks as if he had something in him."

Her acceptance of the situation threw the Skipper into a towering rage. He stammered and stuttered. Cynthia paid no attention to his angry words.

"Shall I take the wheel, Uncle?" she asked.

This seemed to bring the Captain to his senses.

"Take the wheel, Mr. Jones." I had had it for a minute.

"On deck, everybody!" The men came tumbling up in lively fashion. They could have heard our Skipper on board the other vessel.

"Jump to the lee braces, men! Brace everything sharp up! Get a small pull of the spanker sheet! Haul all the bow lines! Let her luff! Luff, you beggar! Bring her close by the wind!"

The Captain stood, his chin raised in the air, his eyes on the yards.

"Well! The main yard!" The men ceased hauling, and belayed the braces.

"Well! The maintops'l yard. Belay the lee braces!"

"Do you think we'll get ahead of that other ship?" said Cynthia.

I looked critically to windward.

"No, I don't," said I.

"Then what will happen?"

"Depends on the other fellow; if——"

"Think we might weather the nubbles, Mr. Jones?" And then, before I could answer, "Ready about!" he roared.

"Ay, ay, sir!"

"He's bound to catch us on this tack," confided I into the funnel as I ran to my station.

The men ran willingly to obey the orders; all but Tomkins.

"Blank you, Tomkins! why don't you move? Got rheumatism, or what? Why don't those sails fill? Darn it all! We're in irons. No, there she goes! We're forging ahead. Think I'll run for that cove when we tack again. Might stand 'em off with two four-poun——"

The Skipper was interrupted. He stood with open mouth, from which no sound issued. We were all, as we stood, swayed slowly forward, then as slowly backward, with a motion that made me sick and dizzy. There was a shaking of the hull, an ominous creaking of the masts, as the Yankee Blade careened slightly and stood still. At that moment a shot struck the foremast, cutting it in two. It fell to leeward, a mass of splintered wood and tangled rigging. The crashing of the top into the water sent the foam flying over us.

"He wants you to stop," said Cynthia.

"Well, haven't I?" said the Skipper dryly.

"Yes, you have certainly," answered Cynthia in a tone of conviction. The Skipper turned on Cynthia in a sudden rage.

"Can't you cry or do something? Why don't you act womanly. I wish to God you was home with your Aunt Mary 'Zekel!"

The Skipper seemed to have lost his nerve.

"What shall we do, Jones? Cut away the mast, I suppose."

"Better lower some boats, sir, at once," said I. "We're no match for them."

Cynthia had the glass raised to her eyes.

"They're getting out a boat," she said.

"Let me see."

The Skipper seized the spyglass from Cynthia so roughly that he pulled her sunbonnet from her head. She stood beside him bareheaded, the gentle tropic breeze blowing her hair into a thousand little brown rings. I ran close to her as I was hurrying to get the boats lowered. Her mouth was set, as if she did not fancy her Uncle's rough treatment.

"He doesn't mean it, Miss Archer," I said in as sympathetic a tone as I could command. "He's worried and——"

"You need not apologize to me for my Uncle, Mr. Jones. We understand each other thoroughly." She went up to the old man and laid her hand upon