I

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      The Kanaka helmsman put the wheel down, and the Malahini slipped into the eye of the wind and righted to an even keel. Her head-sails emptied, there was a rat-tat of reef-points and quick shifting of boom-tackles, and she was heeled over and filled away on the other tack. Though it was early morning and the wind brisk, the five white men who lounged on the poop-deck were scantily clad. David Grief, and his guest, Gregory Mulhall, an Englishman, were still in pajamas, their naked feet thrust into Chinese slippers. The captain and mate were in thin undershirts and unstarched duck pants, while the supercargo still held in his hands the undershirt he was reluctant to put on. The sweat stood out on his forehead, and he seemed to thrust his bare chest thirstily into the wind that did not cool.

      “Pretty muggy, for a breeze like this,” he complained.

      “And what’s it doing around in the west? That’s what I want to know,” was Grief’s contribution to the general plaint.

      “It won’t last, and it ain’t been there long,” said Hermann, the Holland mate. “She is been chop around all night—five minutes here, ten minutes there, one hour somewhere other quarter.”

      “Something makin ‘, something makin ‘,” Captain Warfield croaked, spreading his bushy beard with the fingers of both hands and shoving the thatch of his chin into the breeze in a vain search for coolness. “Weather’s been crazy for a fortnight. Haven’t had the proper trades in three weeks. Everything’s mixed up. Barometer was pumping at sunset last night, and it’s pumping now, though the weather sharps say it don’t mean anything. All the same, I’ve got a prejudice against seeing it pump. Gets on my nerves, sort of, you know. She was pumping that way the time we lost the Lancaster. I was only an apprentice, but I can remember that well enough. Brand new, four-masted steel ship; first voyage; broke the old man’s heart. He’d been forty years in the company. Just faded way and died the next year.”

      Despite the wind and the early hour, the heat was suffocating. The wind whispered coolness, but did not deliver coolness. It might have blown off the Sahara, save for the extreme humidity with which it was laden. There was no fog nor mist, nor hint of fog or mist, yet the dimness of distance produced the impression. There were no defined clouds, yet so thickly were the heavens covered by a messy cloud-pall that the sun failed to shine through.

      “Ready about!” Captain Warfield ordered with slow sharpness.

      The brown, breech-clouted Kanaka sailors moved languidly but quickly to head-sheets and boom-tackles.

      “Hard a-lee!”

      The helmsman ran the spokes over with no hint of gentling, and the Malahini darted prettily into the wind and about.

      “Jove! she’s a witch!” was Mulhall’s appreciation. “I didn’t know you South Sea traders sailed yachts.”

      “She was a Gloucester fisherman originally,” Grief explained, “and the Gloucester boats are all yachts when it comes to build, rig, and sailing.”

      “But you’re heading right in—why don’t you make it?” came the Englishman’s criticism.

      “Try it, Captain Warfield,” Grief suggested. “Show him what a lagoon entrance is on a strong ebb.”

      “Close-and-by!” the captain ordered.

      “Close-and-by,” the Kanaka repeated, easing half a spoke.

      The Malahini laid squarely into the narrow passage which was the lagoon entrance of a large, long, and narrow oval of an atoll. The atoll was shaped as if three atolls, in the course of building, had collided and coalesced and failed to rear the partition walls. Cocoanut palms grew in spots on the circle of sand, and there were many gaps where the sand was too low to the sea for cocoanuts, and through which could be seen the protected lagoon where the water lay flat like the ruffled surface of a mirror. Many square miles of water were in the irregular lagoon, all of which surged out on the ebb through the one narrow channel. So narrow was the channel, so large the outflow of water, that the passage was more like the rapids of a river than the mere tidal entrance to an atoll. The water boiled and whirled and swirled and drove outward in a white foam of stiff, serrated waves. Each heave and blow on her bows of the upstanding waves of the current swung the Malahini off the straight lead and wedged her as with wedges of steel toward the side of the passage. Part way in she was, when her closeness to the coral edge compelled her to go about. On the opposite tack, broadside to the current, she swept seaward with the current’s speed.

      “Now’s the time for that new and expensive engine of yours,” Grief jeered good-naturedly.

      That the engine was a sore point with Captain Warfield was patent. He had begged and badgered for it, until in the end Grief had given his consent.

      “It will pay for itself yet,” the captain retorted, “You wait and see. It beats insurance and you know the underwriters won’t stand for insurance in the Paumotus.”

      Grief pointed to a small cutter beating up astern of them on the same course.

      “I’ll wager a five-franc piece the little Nuhiva beats us in.”

      “Sure,” Captain Warfield agreed. “She’s overpowered. We’re like a liner alongside of her, and we’ve only got forty horsepower. She’s got ten horse, and she’s a little skimming dish. She could skate across the froth of hell, but just the same she can’t buck this current. It’s running ten knots right now.”

      And at the rate of ten knots, buffeted and jerkily rolled, the Malahini went out to sea with the tide.

      “She’ll slacken in half an hour—then we’ll make headway,” Captain Warfield said, with an irritation explained by his next words. “He has no right to call it Parlay. It’s down on the admiralty charts, and the French charts, too, as Hikihoho. Bougainville discovered it and named it from the natives.”

      “What’s the name matter?” the supercargo demanded, taking advantage of speech to pause with arms shoved into the sleeves of the undershirt. “There it is, right under our nose, and old Parlay is there with the pearls.”

      “Who see them pearl?” Hermann queried, looking from one to another.

      “It’s well known,” was the supercargo’s reply. He turned to the steersman: “Tai-Hotauri, what about old Parlay’s pearls?”

      The Kanaka, pleased and self-conscious, took and gave a spoke.

      “My brother dive for Parlay three, four month, and he make much talk about pearl. Hikihoho very good place for pearl.”

      “And the pearl-buyers have never got him to part with a pearl,” the captain broke in.

      “And they say he had a hatful for Armande when he sailed for Tahiti,” the supercargo carried on the tale. “That’s fifteen years ago, and he’s been adding to it ever since—stored the shell as well. Everybody’s seen that—hundreds of tons of it. They say the lagoon’s fished clean now. Maybe that’s why he’s announced the