Volume 1821
Georges Dodds'
The Ape-Man: his Kith and Kin
A collection of texts which prepared the advent of Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs
Presents
http://www.erbzine.com/mag18/eldridge.htm

Author(s)

Link to Tarzan of the Apes

• Taliaferro, John. 1999. Tarzan Forever. The Life of Edgar Rice Burroughs, Creator of Tarzan. New York: Scribners, 400 pp.
• Nesteby, James R. 1980. The Tenuous Vine of Tarzan of the Apes. Journal of Popular Culture 8(3): 483-

Edition(s) used

• William Tillinghast Eldridge. 1910. "The Monkey Man" The All-Story Magazine 18: 1-15, 232-247, 438- 451, 648-659.

Text from microfilm obtained through Interlibrary loan.

Modifications to the text

• Chapter titles placed in Table of Contents

He was a small, nerve-strung man, with a disposition that disliked to give up and seek rest under any circumstances.

Finally, however, under the insistent urging of his physician, he departed for California, accompanied by his daughter and Richard Wainwright, who had been his assistant in many of his experiments during the past few years.

Professor Bucknell, while giving up his chair in the Eastern university, had no intention of entirely dropping his researches into the evolution of man, and, consequently, he persuaded Wainwright to accompany him.

For six months, however, after the arrival of the three in San Francisco, little work was accomplished, the time being spent by Miss Bucknell and Wainwright in an endeavor to keep the professor from overtaxing his strength, as his nervous system showed an inclination to break completely.

All might have been well, and Bucknell would, undoubtedly, have been content to rest, had not a friend returned from a long voyage in the Pacific, and finding Bucknell in San Francisco, spent a week in his company. At first it seemed that the visit of Professor Haverill worked for the better, and that the long talks and discussions that the two indulged in revived Bucknell's waning strength.

It was at the very end of Haverill's stay that he came to speak of his trip.

"I'm going East, Bucknell," he suggested.

"I'm obliged to return, and cannot undertake a certain affair which I believe should prove decidedly interesting. I have not mentioned it before; I do not know as I should even now. If you had your usual health, your leisure, being here in San Francisco, I should like to see you follow up the information I secured on my voyage."

Bucknell leaned forward, his long, nervous fingers intertwining.

"What is it, Haverill  --- something that substantiates our theories?"

"It seems to substantiate the Darwinian theory, if it is true."

"Indeed, you surprise me!" The gray eyes took on an added fervor. "You have made a discovery, then?"

As he spoke he drew a small vial from his pocket and slipped a tablet between his lips.

"If you were in a position to follow it up," Haverill mused, rising slowly to pace up and down the room.

"What is it?" Bucknell demanded excitedly.

Haverill hesitated before answering. He realized quite fully that Bucknell was in poor health. He rather doubted the wisdom in speaking of a matter which would only rouse his friend's curiosity, his desire to investigate, when he was actually in no condition to do so.

"Well, well!" Bucknell ejaculated. "You have said either too much or too little."

"Yes," Haverill agreed. "I fear so.'' And then, overburdened with the story he had heard, desiring to discuss its plausibility with his friend, he sank down into a chair close to Bucknell.

"It may be nothing. I came, you know, from the Fiji group on a sailing vessel, and on board there was an old sailor, the second mate, and it was from him that I heard this story."

"Yes," Bucknell agreed, his nervous, excitable manner departing. "You say it partially confirms the Darwinian theory?"

"If it is true, it establishes that theory."

"The evolution of man from the monkey," Bucknell mused.

"This sailor," Haverill went on, "told me of an island the exact location of which he was hardly able to state. It appears that some two years ago the ship he was then sailing on was blown from its course and came upon this island, which, by the way, he claims to be uncharted. They stopped for the purpose of filling their water-casks, and the sailor spent a day ashore with two of his companions. They explored the island  --- it was not a large one  --- and came upon some peculiar tracks."

"How peculiar?"

"He described them as being round, some four or five inches in diameter. Following the tracks, they caught a glimpse of a creature, short in stature, covered with hair, which moved with great agility, and which they finally lost as it swung into a tall tree and clambered from that to another.

"That's the substance of the story. Of course, I questioned the man closely, but really obtained no more definite information than I have given you."

"Was it a monkey?"

"The sailor asserts that the creature was able to speak; at least, he was very positive that it uttered a cry and called out in tones closely resembling the human voice." "And you are satisfied that his story was authentic?"

"He talked with me on several occasions, and I questioned him at considerable length, but without shaking my belief. It is very certain that he saw an animal of some kind, but whether of the nature he describes could only be determined by an investigation."

"The animal was covered with hair?" Bucknell demanded.

"So the sailor asserts; covered with hair, with human features, and was about four feet tall. The arms were long, and he traveled over the ground by leaps and bounds, swinging into the trees by his hands, and clambering with great agility from limb to limb."

"A species of monkey," Bucknell mused.

"Apparently, yes. The point that impressed me particularly was the description the sailor gave of the face. He was very certain that there was a large nose, which, of course, is usually lacking in monkeys."

"And the voice?" Bucknell demanded.

"That was another point. The man was so impressed with the occurrence that, on his return to the boat, he urged the captain to put a party ashore for the purpose of capturing the creature. No such attempt was made, however, as the captain was anxious to get under way. The weather had cleared, they had filled their water-casks, and so they set sail."

"And only one glimpse was caught of the creature?"

"As the ship put out, it appeared on a high promontory, and my informant studied it through a pair of glasses. He says that it waved to them, and I gathered that he was more impressed by its actions at that time, although he claims its shouts and cries, as he pursued it, convinced him of its ability to talk.''

As Bucknell listened to his friend's story his eyes took on an added glitter. Finally he rose, and began pacing up and down the room.

"Where is this island?" he demanded.

"That's the question. I have a rough chart" --- Haverill drew a paper from his pocket --- "but I doubt very much if it can be relied upon, as the sailor stated that the captain made no observation or attempt to place the island's position."

"Yet it was an uncharted island, you say? Rather strange, is it not, that no record was made?"

"Possibly the captain did make one; but, at least, the sailor with whom I talked had no definite information. He locates it, however, rather vaguely, in the southern Pacific, either slightly north or south of the equator."

"And as to latitude?" Bucknell questioned."

"Approximately in the vicinity of the one hundred and thirty-fifth degree west." "We should locate it fairly accurately from that, if the man's information is at all correct. A search should settle the question." "If you were able to take up the matter?"

"Why not defer your trip East? We will fit out an expedition. Come, Haverill, this is an opportunity not to be lost."

"Don't urge me. I had thought of undertaking it; but on my arrival here, as you know, I received a letter from Professor Verten, and I must hurry back at once. I have, even now, overstayed my time. If you felt able to undertake it, certainly Wainwright would be glad to go with you." "Would he? Would he?" Bucknell suggested. Wainwright and my daughter would object. They think my health is broken. They would argue that such a trip would be suicidal. If you could go, then there would be an excuse. I could insist upon accompanying you, but for me to fit out an expedition myself  --- "He shook his head.

"I should be glad to see it undertaken," Haverill urged. "If this creature at all resembles what the sailor said, it would be a tremendous thing to have found it. Bucknell, if you could capture this monkey-man, so the sailor named it, it might go far toward settling many theories."

"Yes...yes!" Bucknell agreed, still pacing up and down the room. "You are right, it should be attempted. I will do it. This six months of rest has restored my health sufficiently for me to undertake such an expedition. I have the means; there is no reason why I should hesitate."

"Wainwright and your daughter?" Haverill suggested.

In answer Bucknell stepped to the door and called his assistant.

Wainwright  --- tall, slender, his dark wavy hair marking a face filled with resolution and earnestness  --- responded to the summons. In the six years of his association with Professor Bucknell he had become a settled member of the household, and his interest and concern over his employer's health was more marked on that account.

Professor Haverill repeated his story; and, though Wainwright exhibited a keen interest in the narrative, he looked upon the suggestion of an expedition with disfavor.

"I told you," Bucknell reiterated, turning to his friend "I am dependent upon Wainwright here. I am  --- in a way  --- in his

hands."

"Florence would object," Dick Wainwright suggested.

"There you are!" Bucknell snapped. "I told you my daughter would disapprove. She and Dick, here, side together upon every possible occasion. They're against me, both of them."

Wainwright laughed softly, and spoke in a soothing tone.

"We are looking out for your health, Mr. Bucknell, that's all. A trip into the tropical zone would hardly be advisable. We could wait for a while; another six months." "Another six months!" Bucknell roared. "Two years ago this creature was discovered. It may be too late even now. Man, the opportunity should not be lost, not a day allowed to pass; an expedition should be fitted out at once."

A long discussion followed, growing more and more excited, more determined to undertake the matter, until Wainwright suggested deferring the settlement of the question until the following day, and, leaving the matter open, he hurried away to find Miss Bucknell, to whom he explained the subject. With a worried frown on her fair forehead, the girl heard Wainwright through.

"It is out of the question," she insisted.

"Just what I told him," he nodded. "But he seems determined to undertake it." "Did he grow very nervous or excited"

"He did when I opposed the idea. I'm afraid there will be no way of satisfying him but to give in."

"But that's out of the question," she insisted.

"If it comes to the point of his growing worse because of our refusal, we might as well go."

She laid down her book with a troubled glance.

"I should have to accompany him, I presume?"

"Yes," he agreed, "you have always done so heretofore."

"But before he had his health, while now the strain of such a trip, the excitement, if it prove successful  --- or unsuccessful  --- would, I fear, be too much for his strength." "'If he insists?" Wainwright questioned.

A plaintive little smile touched her red lips, and she glanced up with wide-open brown eyes.

"We will give in, I presume, as we always have."

"At the best, it will be a long, monotonous voyage; you should not undertake it."

"If he decides to go, it being impossible to persuade him not to do so, I shall of course accompany him."

"Professor Haverill leaves in the morning. After he has gone, we may be able to change your father's decision."

It proved, however, in the morning that Professor Bucknell was more determined than ever. Long into the night he and his friend had discussed the matter, and immediately upon Professor Haverill's departure, following breakfast, Bucknell announced his determination to undertake the trip.

"Look up a boat, Dick, at once. You know what will be needed. Florence, you must pack to-day. We'll not lose a moment more than is necessary. You should be able to find some vessel able to put to sea at once. Charter it, and let us get under way."

With all her winning personality, Florence Bucknell was unable to persuade her father to alter his plans; and when she and Dick Wainwright saw that he only grew more and more nervous and excited as they entered objections, they finally bowed to the inevitable.

"All right," Wainwright agreed; "I'll see what I can do."

"Hurry! Bucknell urged. "We'll get the monkey-man, Dick. Think what it means. Florence, your father may be the one to solve the question that has been vexing the scientific world for years!"

While he had been connected with the professor and his researches for a period of six years, and had lived with him a greater part of the time, he had seen very little of Florence, as during the greater part of that period she had been at college, and afterward away from home visiting friends.

During the six months there had, however, grown up a close intimacy between the two, starting with the common point of interest, the care of Professor Bucknell, and Wainwright had in that time found his interest in the dark-haired girl increasing daily.

When it became very evident that Professor Bucknell could not be shaken from his determination to undertake the search for the island on which he hoped to find the monkey-man, Wainwright had bowed to the inevitable and consented to go in search of a vessel proper for their expedition.

Before leaving the house, however, he secured the opportunity to talk with Florence, and saw instantly that while she had at first objected, she was now thoroughly in favor of the trip.

Knowing her father as she did, she felt that to oppose him in his nervous condition of health would be more disastrous than to undertake the voyage, and Wainwright was at last obliged to agree that her reasons for consenting were sound, and that there was actually nothing to do but make final arrangements.

If a proper boat could be found, they could get under way immediately, and so Wainwright set off for the shipping center, at first with the idea of making only a meager effort to secure a vessel, and reporting back to the professor that delay would have to follow; and then, as he came to consider the matter more thoroughly, with the resolve to secure a necessary ship at once.

He visited several agencies, to meet with no success, and was just about to give up for the day, when coming out of an office, he was accosted by a tall, weather-beaten man with the marks of the sea in face and bearing.

"I understand you are looking for a vessel, sir," the man suggested, touching his cap."

"Yes," Wainwright agreed. "Have you something to offer?"

"I know the very boat. I heard you stating what you wanted to the agent. Will you look it over? It's but a stone's throw from here."

Wainwright contented to accompany Captain Stockman, as the man named himself, and the two proceeded to the water- front and aboard the captain's vessel.

"She's a reconverted yacht, sir. Been using her up and down the coast. You can see for yourself that she's got good lines, seaworthy, speed, and fair accommodations. Have you a large party?"

"Not at all; only three of us," Wain-wright replied.

"As I understand from what I overheard, you want to run down the coast in the direction of South America?"

The question was put rather eagerly; and when Wainwright nodded the sailor hurried on: "She's just the one for the purpose. I'm owner, sir; and, as the times are a bit dull, I'm willing to make a fair bargain. Crew's signed; we can put out the instant you are ready to come aboard."

The more Wainwright talked with the man, the more convinced he became that he had by good fortune found the very boat for their expedition, and so finally the two came to discuss terms.

"If you will wait a moment; I'm owner, as I say, but my mate has an interest in the boat, and I'd like to talk with him first. As I understand, it, you're simply going for a cruise?"

"Not exactly that." Wainwright shook his head. "The fact is, I am chartering the boat for Mr. Bucknell, a professor of biology, who is anxious to make some researches on an island in the Pacific. The, exact location of this island is a matter of question, but Mr. Bucknell has a rough chart, and, though I have not examined it closely, my impression is that the trip would take us in the vicinity of the equator, somewhere near South America. I presume, however, that part of it is immaterial to you, if Mr. Bucknell is ready to meet your figure."

"Absolutely immaterial," Captain Stockman agreed. "Put down the money, and the ship is yours to go where you will. How many did you say would be, in the party?" "Professor Bucknell, his daughter, and myself."

"Rather a long trip for a lady, sir."

"True; but she will accompany us. Now, as to your price?"

The captain put a chair at Wainwright's disposal and hurried off to look up the mate. In the forecastle, half a dozen men were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Stockman. They had been loitering on the water-front when he came down the wharf with Wainwright, but at a sign from him had hurried aboard the Sea- Gull, as the vessel was named.

Stockman came down the companion into the forecastle with a look of absolute exultation on his face.

"We have hit on it!" he whispered. "We can turn the trick now!"

"Who is the chap? " a short, swarthy man demanded, pushing back his chair.

"Wainwright's his name. I ran into him in Clare's agency. He was looking for a boat, and all we've got to do now is to put the price low enough to land him."

"What does he want it for?" Munroe demanded.

"He's chartering for a professor who's on the hunt for an island the location of which he doesn't know anything about."

"Where away? " Munroe asked.

"Off South America, in the neighborhood of the equator." The men exchanged significant glances. "It's just rare good fortune, that's all it is," Stockman laughed hoarsely, pounding the table with his huge fist. "There's but three in the party, the professor, this man Wainwright, and a young lady."

"We don't want any women in this racket," one of the men growled.

"It would be better if there weren't any," Stockman agreed, "but beggars can't be choosers. We're in luck to find somebody to charter who will pass muster with the government."

"Right! " Munroe nodded, pulling at his black mustache. "We'll have no trouble clearing under such conditions."

"Not a bit," Stockman agreed. "We've got the arms stored in the hold, and when we come to clear, with this professor and his expedition as our object-point, we pass muster without a doubt. I wanted to be sure you were of a mind before settling the matter. What do you say?"

The men nodded, with the exception of Munroe, whose swarthy countenance was screwed into a doubtful expression.

"Well, Jack?" Captain Stockman demanded, turning to his mate.

"I dare say it'll go. Don't know as we can do less than make the try. But you and I know  --- all of us know  --- the government's looking out for filibusters sharp and plenty." "I don't know as they've got their eye on us particular, but they are watching every boat of small tonnage, and it seems to me as if this professor's destination was pretty nigh too close to South America for our own good. Won't the government chaps suspect a trick right away?"

"That's the risk we've got to take," Stockman asserted. "Here we've been laying off a month, waiting' for a chance to weigh anchor. We've had these rifles aboard every bit of that time. If we don't hurry up and get south with 'em, we'll have our pains for nothing."

"What's the idea when we do get out?" Munroe questioned.

Stockman chuckled. "There's but three of 'em. Two men  --- landsmen, both of 'em  --- and it'll be easy enough to hold to our course without their suspecting any trick. Varno will meet us somewhere off the South America coast, and give us the point to land. A code message will tell him when we leave."

"And when we meet Varno?" Munroe questioned.

"It's easy enough. What can this professor do? We'll land the rifles, and then, if he is ready to bargain with us, and pay the price, we'll look up the island. Now, the point is to put our figure low enough so that we can close with him. All we need is some good respectable person to answer for our character while we get out of port"

A deep guffaw ended the speech.

"Go ahead!" Munroe nodded. "Make your bargain. Let's clear, and get the job done and pocket the money."

Stockman rejoined Wainwright and the two adjourned to the cabin, where, with more or less dickering, for Wainwright was determined to go to as little expense as possible in the matter, the bargain was finally concluded to his satisfaction.

The captain agreed to have the necessary papers drawn up that afternoon, and to call on Professor Bucknell for his signature. A payment was made to bind the bargain, and Wainwright returned to report the result of his quest.

It thus happened that, two days later, the Sea- Gull successfully cleared, and steamed out through the Golden Gate on her voyage into the southern Pacific.

Wainwright and Florence Bucknell stood side by side on the aft deck as the distant shore faded from view. Florence turned; her dark eyes alight, her tall, slender figure leaning gracefully against the rail of the swift little vessel.

"I don't believe you could have done better if you had searched and searched. The appointments are perfect. It's just like a private yacht."

"And we haven't got a bad crew," Wainwright nodded. "Captain Stockman is a very decent sort of a man. He's really taken a keen interest in our search. I have told him enough to give him a fair idea of what we are after."

A plaintive smile flashed over Florence's red lips, and from out the corner of narrowing eyes she glanced earnestly at her companion.

"I hope we are successful," she mused; her eyes had traveled to her father, who was nervously pacing up and down the forward deck. "He was terribly put out to lose that chest. It's funny it didn't come aboard with the rest of the baggage."

"It's a small matter," Wainwright asserted. "There was nothing in it of any importance."

"Father didn't seem to think so when he spoke with me about it."

"Just the excitement over our departure." He spoke confidently. "If we get the monkey-man, all will be well."

"I wonder if we will." And then, with a laugh, casting aside her anxiety for her father's health: "Look! Land is gone; only ocean ahead. I wonder what the voyage will bring forth."

She really had no serious doubts or misgivings. Loving the sea, she anticipated no end of pleasure in the trip; and yet, had she or Wainwright been able to note the satisfaction in the forecastle, they might have wondered more than they did as to what the coming days would hold.

At first both Wainwright and Florence attributed it to the excitement of the trip; but, as it continued, Wainwright grew more and more worried.

The chest which had been inadvertently left behind, seemed never out of Bucknell's mind.

"It's a small matter," Wainwright urged. "There were only a few odds and ends in it."

"It contained medicines," Bucknell insisted.

"Some few bottles," Wainwright admitted. "I packed most or them in my trunk."

"You did!" Bucknell demanded, leaping to his feet. "Let me see."

And, without waiting, he rushed below.

Wainwright followed, to arrive in his state-room as the professor was rapidly throwing the contents of his trunk onto the floor and seizing up bottle after bottle. Standing in the doorway, he viewed the old man's agitation with a troubled frown on his face.

"It is not here  --- it is not here," Bucknell muttered, as if unmindful of Wainwright's presence. "It is left behind. It is left behind!"

"What is it?" Wainwright questioned, stepping into the stateroom and closing the door. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

The professor wheeled and glared savagely at the younger man.

"That chest never should have been left behind," he growled, and without another word he pushed by Wainwright and went on deck.

The incident worried Wainwright considerably, but he made no mention of it to Florence until she spoke of her father's increasing nervousness, and of how she had found him in her stateroom overhauling her boxes.

"He is looking for something," she asserted. Did you question him?"

"Yes. But he refused to explain. What can it be?"

"I don't believe it's anything of importance,"Wainwright insisted, endeavoring to allay Florence's anxiety, although secretly very much worried and alarmed over his employer's actions.

It was a day or two later that he came upon the professor on the forward deck in an excited discussion with Captain Stockman."

"I know what I am. talking about!" Bucknell roared as Wainwright came forward. "You are not holding to the course I ordered. Do you think I know nothing! You're keeping altogether too close to the coast."

"My dear sir," the captain smiled, appealing to Wainwright more than to the professor, "we are not near the coast. You haven't sighted land since we left San Francisco."

"It makes no difference. Dick, I tell you, there is something wrong here. This man isn't following his instructions." Wainwright endeavored to calm Bucknell, and appealed to the captain for help. "Possibly there's a purpose in keeping near shore?"

"To be sure there is," Stockman agreed. "We could make out, but we'll get a heavier sea and a rougher passage."

"We've got to cruise about more or less," Wainwright urged. "Don't you see, Mr. Bucknell, it will be as well to run due south until we reach the equator, and then we can turn east. I think Captain Stockman is following the best course. At least, isn't it safe to leave the matter to his judgment?" Stockman smiled and nodded. "You are quite right, Mr. Wainwright. Let us reach the equator, and then it will be time enough to make east."

Professor Bucknell, however, while momentarily accepting the captain's explanation, reverted again and again to the subject, and showed as much anxiety over what he felt was the wrong course of the vessel as he had over the chest which had failed to come aboard with the other supplies.

It was a day later, and Wainwright, noting Professor Bucknell's absence from the deck, went in search of him. He made it a point to keep his eye on his employer, for his increasing nervousness not only alarmed him greatly, but he saw that it worried Florence to such an extent that she was only easy in mind when her father was within sight.

A search of the cabin and the staterooms failed to disclose the professor, and, with his anxiety increasing, he hurried forward. In the forecastle he stirred up the crew, and questioned them. One of the men had seen Professor Bucknell descending into the hold, and Wainwright went down the ladder.

In the dim light of a lantern he caught a glimpse of the small, wiry figure leaning over an open chest. Pausing on the lower step, he studied the man with a perplexed frown. What could this continuous search of trunks and boxes mean?

"Not here; not here! Bucknell muttered.

He made no effort to replace the articles he had tossed out, but straightened and gazed about him, his face twitching strangely.

The lantern threw a meager light about the hold, casting the boxes and overhead rafters in weird shadows, in the midst of which stood Bucknell, a grotesque figure. There was something sinister, inexplicable, in the situation, and Wainwright hesitated to make his presence known.

As he stood studying his employer, the professor drew a vial from his pocket and rattled the single pellet that remained in the glass.

"The last one  --- the last one!" he muttered. "The rest were left. I thought they were in my bag  --- in that chest. The last one!"

Wainwright leaned forward, his breath caught. He had in the past few years noted that Professor Bucknell indulged in these tablets, and he recalled suddenly that his nervousness and excitable disposition were allayed following the taking of what he supposed, up to then, was medicine. His alarm prompted him to step forward quickly.

"Mr. Bucknell, what does this mean?" The professor straightened, his eyes blinked, and then with the fury of a maddened animal he sprang at Wainwright.

The attack came unexpectedly, but the younger man in an instant seized the lifted arms and held his employer so that he was unable to move. "Come, come," he spoke soothingly. "There's no reason for such excitement. Come to your stateroom. You are not well."

It took some time to quiet the nerve-strung man, but at last Wainwright led him to his room and persuaded him to go to bed.

"Tell me," he urged after a little "just what it is that you are searching for."

Bucknell, however, refused to answer any of the questions; and calling Florence to sit with her father, Wainwright hurried to his stateroom, with the vial containing the single tablet.

It took him but a brief time to make a superficial analysis, and he saw then the truth of his fears. His employer was addicted to a drug, first taken, undoubtedly, when his strength had begun to ebb, and he had found his nervous system breaking down under his exacting duties.

It was now very evident why he had shown such concern over the chest. It contained a supply of the tablets which he required, by force of habit.

Wainwright realized that while it might be possible to gradually break the hold the drug had acquired over the professor it could not with safety be done abruptly. Yet that was exactly the difficulty, for even should they turn back, they would never reach San Francisco in time to procure the medical aid Professor Bucknell's growing nervousness clearly indicated as essential.

Face to face with the dilemma, Wainwright hurried back to relieve Florence in her watch. She saw the anxious look on his face, even though he tried to smile reassuringly."

"We should turn back," she suggested in a low tone.

Wainwright avoided a direct answer, for he knew only too well that such a course would prove of no avail. Urging Florence to go on deck, he closed the door and sat down by the berth.

Bucknell lay with eyes closed, his face muscles twitching now and then, his long thin fingers straightening and drawing up with nervous jerks.

Wainwright drew a deep sigh, puzzled to know what he was to do. He felt the responsibility of the situation, and yet he saw no possibility of avoiding the conditions with which he was face to face.

His knowledge of drugs was more or less slight, and yet he tried to think of some substitute which he could prepare, for he knew only too well that Professor Bucknell must be supplied with the poison to which he had undoubtedly become thoroughly addicted. With anxious eyes he studied the shrunken figure, and suddenly there was a convulsive shudder, and the man, throwing aside the sheets, sprang from the bed.

"Come, come!" Wainwright urged. "Mr. Bucknell, stop!"

His tone was sharp. He realized that he could only control his employer by exerting the stronger will-power.

For an instant the small, wiry figure stood in the middle of the floor, nerves tense, eyes flashing, teeth showing under parted lips, and then with a cry of madness he leaped straight at Wainwright.

The force of the charge carried the two crashing against the side of the bed; and for an instant, Wainwright was absolutely powerless against the strength of the other's grip.

Recovering himself, he made no move to free the encircling arms, but spoke soothingly, urging Mr., Bucknell to return to bed.

"You left the chest! You left the chest!"shrieked the professor, and springing back, he seized the pitcher and hurled it straight at Wainwright's head. The young man strove to dodge the missile, but for an instant, as the pitcher caught him on the forehead, and crashed into a thousand pieces against the wall, he reeled back, partially stunned.

Before he could make a move, Bucknell turned and, with a shriek, threw open the stateroom door and dashed into the passage. Like a shot Wainwright was after him, but too late to see in which direction the scantily clad figure had fled.

Dashing toward the stern he ran up the companion steps and reached the aft deck. One glance showed him that the professor had not turned in that direction, and on the run, he raced forward. Shouts and cries came to his ears, before he had covered a dozen feet, and the next instant the crew came flying aft.

"A madman, a madman!" came the cry.

"You fools; come on!" Wainwright broke the flying ranks and rushed toward the bow.

Still there was no sign of Bucknell, but a cry from the galley told the direction in which the professor had turned. As Wainwright dashed to the companion, the cook came reeling onto the deck, his face laid open to the bone.

"Help, help!" he shouted and dashed into Wainwright.

The next instant Professor Bucknell leaped to the deck, a huge cleaver in his hand.

He caught sight of Wainwright.

"You left the chest! You left the chest!" he shrieked, and leaped at his assistant.

There was no disguising the fact that the man was stark mad, and realizing that unarmed he was no match for his employer, Wainwright leaped to one side just in time to avoid the murderous blow aimed at his head.

Bucknell reeled and staggered to his knees, the impetus with which he struck out carrying him forward.

Like a shot Wainwright flung himself upon the prostrate figure, but even as quick as he was, his hands hardly grasped Bucknell's arm, when, with a shriek, the man broke clear and dashed for the bridge. Up the ladder he went with the agility of a cat, the cleaver swinging above his head.

"You altered the course of the ship; you altered the course of the ship!"

Like an animal he charged upon the captain.

By now, a state of panic prevailed, and the man at the wheel leaped for the deck as the captain and Bucknell came together in a struggling embrace. For an instant the captain forced the madman against the rail, as, with a shout, Wainwright leaped up the ladder.

For a second it was impossible to get at the professor round the captain's body, and so he made a dive for the bare feet.

As he stopped, Bucknell threw the captain back, brought the cleaver down on the sailor's uplifted arm, and springing clear of Wainwright's hands, dashed wildly for the deck.

The crew, gathered aft, saw him coming, turned and fled, and as Wainwright struggled to his feet, the captain having fallen over him, his eyes caught sight of the sailors seeking safety in flight, a shrieking, wild, disheveled figure in pursuit, a bloody cleaver swinging aloft.

For an instant Wainwright paused, to turn his handkerchief about the captain's arm, and then he and the officer leaped to the deck.. Calling to the crew, they started in pursuit of the professor.

By now he had dashed aft, and as they came on him, he turned and fled into the cabin. Wainwright followed, Munroe and the captain after him.

Through the passage they rushed, up on deck again, and into the midst of a shouting, terror-stricken group of sailors. The vessel, left to itself, had swung around into the trough of the sea, and was pitching dangerously.

For an instant there was a lull. Bucknell stood mad and defiant at the bow.

"Put somebody onto the bridge!" Wainwright cried, and with a call to Munroe for help, he made a dash at Bucknell.

But ten feet separated the two men, when Bucknell swung the cleaver over his head and hurled it straight at Wainwright. He dodged the missile and closed.

The professor's shrieks were horrible, and suddenly, as Wainwright struggled to throw him to the deck, he heard Florence's voice above the cries of the sailors.

A wave struck the ship broadside, lifting the port rail and the two struggling men went careening across the slanting deck.

They struck the rail with a dull thud, there was a crash of splintering wood, and as the ship careened still farther, the two were flung into the seething waves, locked in each other's arms.

For an instant it seemed that he would strangle; and then, fighting clear, he broke the other's hold, and, seizing him by the arm, reached the surface.

Striking out, he cast a glance toward the vessel, now some distance away, and made out a group of sailors frantically endeavoring to lower a boat.

The next instant he felt a weight upon his neck, and he turned as Bucknell's arms closed about it.

There was but one thing to do, and, clenching his fist, Wainwright struck at his employer. In the struggle his blow failed to reach its mark, and the two men sank, Wainwright striving to unlock the clinging fingers as Bucknell kicked and struggled.

The professor's legs twined themselves about Wainwright's body, and yet he was able to strike out and force himself to the surface, burdened as he was with the clinging figure.

Catching his breath, Wainwright struck out again; but, though his fist fell on the professor's temple, he failed to break the grip. Twice a wave broke over them, and then filling his lungs, Wainwright let himself sink, as he fought and tore at the encircling arms.

There was a pounding in his ears, he felt that his lungs would burst, when suddenly the grip loosened, and, throwing himself back, he again seized the professor by the arm, and with his free hand drove himself to the surface.

He came up, caught his breath, and as Bucknell snatched his arm, a wave rolled over the two, separating them for an instant. As Wainwright shook the water from his eyes he looked in vain for the professor.

A shout caused him to turn, and in the next instant a boat swung into the trough of the waves and came alongside. Clambering aboard, almost exhausted, he scanned the surface for some sign of his employer.

Throwing off his coat, he dived twice, in the hope of finding Bucknell's body; but was at last obliged to clamber into the boat again, and finally to turn back to the vessel alone.

As he climbed to the deck, Florence rushed forward, wild-eyed, her breath coming in quick gasps.

Wainwright stood, a dripping figure, panting with the exertion of the fight, unable to meet the searching eyes of the tall, fair girl.

"My father! " she cried.

"Come," he at last whispered. "We can do nothing."

She stared at him, hardly understanding; but turned to the aft deck. "Florence," he whispered, "it is terrible, but it is best."

She wheeled, dry-eyed, a haunted, terror-stricken look on her face.

"What was it? I saw him. What did it mean?"

He told her as briefly as he could of what he had learned of her father's illness, and finally left her to go below and change his clothes.

When he came on deck again he sank into a chair close at her side, and his hand fell on hers. She looked up then, her large eyes searching his face.

"I have known it for a long time. I thought that perhaps this voyage would help him. That was why I was so willing to come, and it has ended in this way."

He did all that he could to console her, and finally spoke of their position, and what they should now do, in the hope of changing the current of her thoughts.

"There is only one thing to do. We must turn back."

"Yes," he agreed, noting as he glanced up that the vessel was keeping on its course.

"I will go and talk with the captain." He found Stockman on the bridge, his arm bandaged, his face set and stern.

"What set him off?" the captain demanded gruffly."

"He was ill," Wainwright replied. "You'll have to turn back at once."

Stockman nodded.

"Well?" Wainwright demanded when no order was issued.

"We are pretty close to South America. Hadn't we better go on and make a stop there?"

"No!" Wainwright insisted, rather puzzled at the captain's manner. "We must turn, and make back for San Francisco."

The captain issued an order to the wheel, and the yacht veered slightly to starboard.

"How long will it take?" Wainwright questioned.

"You know how long it has taken us to get here."

"What's the matter?" making certain now of the gruffness in the captain's tone. "This is a terrible thing to have had happen. You don't mean to say that you are resenting our turning back?".

"You chartered the boat for at least three months."

"To be sure I did," Wainwright agreed. "For three months or longer. You will be paid for the entire time."

The captain nodded, and Wainwright left the bridge.

The day passed slowly, Wainwright doing all that he could to relieve Florence's sorrow. If she had broken down, he would have felt better. Her dry-eyed acceptance of the calamity that had befallen her worried him more than if her grief had brought the tears.

In the darkness of the early evening they sat together on the afterdeck, when suddenly Florence glanced up.

"Didn't you tell them to put about?" "To be sure; of course."

She turned and pointed to the Dipper.

"It was on our right side last night." "And it is on our right now!" he ex-claimed.

"That's it," she agreed. "If they had put about, it would be on our left."

He studied the stars for some time in perplexity, thinking of Stockman's peculiar actions when he suggested they should return, and finally went in search of the captain. That individual was nowhere to be found, and so he finally climbed to the bridge, where Munroe was in charge.

"I gave Captain Stockman orders to make back," he suggested.

"So I understand," Munroe nodded.

"Why haven't you done so?"

"We have. We are headed for San Francisco now."

"How does it happen then that the Dipper is on the right?"

Munroe's bright eyes studied Wainwright for a second, and then he glanced at the heavens.

"What's the Dipper got to do with it?"

"It simply proves that my order has not been followed out, and that you are continuing south. Look here!" Wainwright pointed at the compass. "We are headed due south."

"You can't go by that," Munroe declared. "It's out of order."

Wainwright considered the mate for a second.

"Where's the captain'?" he demanded.

"In bed and asleep. Laid up by that nice slash he got from your crazy professor." Without another word, Wainwright turned and hurried below, to run into the captain on the forward deck.

By now he was thoroughly convinced that his orders were being disregarded for a purpose, and he faced Stockman angrily.

"I ordered this vessel turned. What do you mean by disobeying my instructions?"

"She has turned. You heard me give the order. You were on the bridge when we swung about."

"You veered off slightly, but since then you have turned again. I have just come from the bridge."

"Did Mr. Munroe tell you we hadn't turned?"

"He told me that we had; but the compass proves that he lied."

"You are a landsman, Mr. Wainwright. I am afraid you don't know how to read the compass."

"I know enough to tell whether we are traveling north or south; and besides, even if your compass is wrong, as your mate insists, the stars are not. We are traveling south, and I want to know what it means!" "We are traveling north."

Wainwright stepped close to the captain.

"Go onto the bridge and turn this vessel. If we are going north now, turn it and head south."

Stockman began to chuckle.

"What do you want to turn south for?"

"I want this vessel turned; no more fooling! With Professor Bucknell's death, I became master, and if there is any further hesitation in obeying my orders, there is only one thing to do  --- to consider your act as mutiny."

"And you want the vessel turned at once?"

"I do."

As the captain slowly clambered from the ladder to the bridge, Wainwright stood on the forward deck watching his movements. He saw the man speak to the mate, and gradually the steamer swung to starboard.

Puzzled by the action of the captain, he moved aft.

"It's all right," he remarked to Florence. I think they misunderstood my orders. They are swinging now."

She glanced at the heavens.

"We haven't turned completely" she remarked. "See, the Dipper is almost dead ahead. We are running west."

Wainwright leaned forward, a puzzled, perplexed frown on his forehead. The ship held its course, making no farther turn north, but, if anything, veering slightly in a southerly direction.

"I don't understand it, Dick; what does it mean? Why shouldn't they turn?"

He was as much at a loss for an explanation as she, but he did not want to arouse her anxieties, although puzzled in his own mind more and more as to the attitude of the ship's officers. When he was certain, in the course of half an hour, that the ship was still holding to a southwesterly course, he rose and went forward again.

The captain was still on the bridge, but as he saw Wainwright approach, he swung down the ladder to the deck.

Beckoning Stockman forward, where he was certain they would be out of earshot of the aft deck, he again demanded an explanation.

"Your orders are being obeyed," came the gruff reply. "You may have chartered this boat, but I'm in command, and I don't want any interference with the running of the ship."

"I want you to turn and head directly north. I don't want to give that order again." "I want you to understand that I want no further orders from you."

"What do you mean!" Wainwright's face flushed angrily,

"What I say. I'll run this ship where I please, and how I please!"

"Do, you mean that you refuse to obey my orders; that you refuse to return to San Francisco?"

The captain slowly unbuttoned his coat, the next instant a revolver was drawn from his pocket.

"I'm going to make a stop. In three days we'll be off the South American coast." "You will do no such thing; you will turn  ---

Wainwright leaped forward, but drew up as he gazed into the barrel of the leveled revolver.

His grief was somewhat deadened by the thought of the position in which Florence stood, made more alarming by the strange actions of Captain Stockman and his mate.

He was certain that there had been some inexplicable significance in their refusal to obey orders, and his inability to fathom the meaning had aroused his anger as much as had their disobedience.

Facing the leveled revolver, a deep, angry flush stole into his cheeks, his teeth set grimly, and without a thought save that he had a mutinous crew to deal with, he leaped straight at the captain.

The sailor hardly anticipated the attack, believing his passenger's position would compel him to give in.

Wainwright's fist fell on the captain's cheek, and the next instant he had wrenched the revolver from Stockman's grasp and had him by the throat.

He caught an ejaculation from the bridge, realized the crew was forward and that to hold his present position would mean that he might be overpowered at any instant. Like a shot he turned toward the stern.

Stockman had wrenched himself free as Wainwright struck out a second time and, recovering, he leaped for his antagonist, to be met by another blow.

The sailor was checked only for a second, and though his left arm was practically useless from the wound received in his encounter with Professor Bucknell, he came again.

Wainwright wheeled, side-stepped as the officer struck out, and the next instant his arm circled the man's neck. With a wrench he drew Stockman to him, half threw him from his feet, and dragging him along, started on a run for the stern.

Struggle as he would, the captain was held, his head thrown back against Wainwright's side, his breath nearly choked from him by the encircling arm.

The sailors on the bridge had hesitated an instant, but as the mate saw the captain getting the worst of the encounter, he called for help and dashed to the deck.

Wainwright and his prisoner reached the stern before the crew could be mustered forward. To his relief he saw that Florence had gone below, and flinging Stockman to the deck, he covered him with his revolver.

"You fool!" he hissed. "Give in, or it's the end of you!" And then, as Munroe and half a dozen seamen came charging down upon him; "Stand back, or I'll put a bullet into your captain!"

Stockman's anger was thoroughly roused at the treatment he had received, but he had the sense to realize that the tall, wild-eyed man who had handled him so easily was no mean antagonist, and that a conciliatory course would perhaps be the best.

"Get back, Munroe; get back!" Stockman shouted, without attempting to move as he lay at Wainwright's feet. "Get back, I say. I'll settle this matter." Wainwright straightened slightly and caught his breath. His eyes shifted from the hesitating group of sailors to the captain, for he was angry enough to carry out his threat and his pistol hung, ready to be turned upon the mate and his backers, if they charged, or upon Stockman, if he attempted to rise.

Munroe held off, and at a motion the sailors retreated slightly, though making no move to retire forward.

"Do you give in?" Wainwright demanded. Stockman essayed a smile.

"I don't blame you a bit, sir. I shouldn't have drawn that pistol, but I guess I was too much put out and excited over the way your professor cut up. You, too, Mr. Wainwright, you were a little excited, and I don't blame you."

"Excited! Yes," Wainwright echoed. You refused to obey my orders. There's no reason for such actions!"

"But you were wrong, sir."

"Cut that out," Wainwright shouted. "Don't try to tell me you turned this ship." And then suddenly glancing at Munroe: "Get onto the bridge there and obey the order I gave you a while ago!"

Munroe made a step forward.

"Quick!" Wainwright shouted. "Order the ship about, captain."

Stockman made a sign to Munroe.

"You had better do what I say," Wainwright broke in, not understanding the gesture.

"Go ahead," Stockman cried. "We are headed the way he wants now, but turn, if he insists."

Munroe, his dark swarthy face filled with anger, hesitated, turned, as if to obey, and then at a cry he wheeled sharply.

Florence Bucknell suddenly appeared at the companionway, and stood with wide open eyes, not understanding the scene which met her gaze.

"Dick, Dick," she called. " What is it?"

"Go below, Florence, quick! Go below!"

Before Wainwright could be obeyed, Munroe made a leap for the girl. He figured, with fair plausibility, that it was the easiest way to rescue his captain, and before Wainwright could divine his purpose, he had her by the arm. It was too late to fire, without the risk of hitting Florence, and for an instant Wainwright made no move. Florence fought desperately, and for a second she broke from Munroe's grasp and dashed toward Wainwright, still standing over the captain. With a leap, Munroe seized her again and dragged her back toward the companionway.

"Let go!" Wainwright shouted, or I'll finish Stockman."

He made a step over the prostrate captain, who, on the instant, leaped suddenly to his feet, throwing Wainwright half off his balance as he dashed forward.

Wainwright fired as the captain fled, but the bullet went wide of its mark. Florence was struggling in Munroe's grasp, and he dashed to the rescue.

The butt of his pistol fell on the mate's head, and the man staggered back.

"Get below, quick!" he cried. "Into your cabin."

Florence turned and fled as Munroe, recovering from the blow, his dark face distorted, leaped for Wainwright.

The pistol rang out, the man staggered, but came on, and the next instant Wainwright was surrounded by half a dozen men.

He, fought them off for a second; one man dropped as the pistol blazed out, and then, suddenly, shrieks and cries for help from the cabin startled him to frenzied madness.

It was Florence's voice calling out, and he knew she must have been attacked again.

He had retreated nearly to the rail, and finding his pistol practically useless in the pressing crowd, he seized a deck-chair and cleared a circle about him. Two sailors went down as the chair struck them, and brandishing it over his head, Wainwright charged into the crowd.

A path opened and he leaped through, making for the cabin, when suddenly a man hurled himself forward and seized Wainwright's legs.

With a crash he went to the deck, the chair flying from his hands, but before he could be seized and held, he was on his feet and down into the cabin.

Florence's cries still echoed in his ears, and desperate and frenzied, he hurled himself upon Stockman and two sailors who were striving to drag the girl down the passage-way.

"You scoundrels!" he panted; and with a crash he brought the butt of his pistol down on the nearest sailor.

The captain and the second sailor leaped at Wainwright.

He flung his empty pistol into the sailor's face and met the captain with clenched fists. Stockman, injured as he was, was no match for Wainwright, and he retreated hastily down the passage.

There was a brief lull  --- an instant in which Wainwright caught his breath. One sailor lay stunned on the cabin floor; the second one, who had been struck by the revolver, struggled to his feet, a deep cut across his forehead, and followed the captain down the passage.

"Dick! Dick!" Florence exclaimed. "What is it? What does it mean?"

"I don't know," he panted, casting his eyes about for some means of defense. On the floor lay the empty pistol, and he seized it as Munroe appeared on the steps leading down from the deck.

"Stand back!" Wainwright roared, threatening the mate with the empty revolver. "Stand back, or I'll fire!".

Munroe, his evil face black with rage, stood hesitating, and Wainwright saw that his left arm hung helplessly at his side and his shirt was dyed red from the wound inflicted by the bullet.

"Get onto the deck!" Wainwright roared again. Munroe made a motion to the back, and slowly retreated up the steps. As he passed out of sight, Wainwright glanced about the cabin. His anger was so great that he hardly realized the hopelessness of his position.

"Dick!" Florence whispered, coming out from behind the table, "why did they attack us? What is going to happen?"

He glanced at the girl, and then the real horror of their position flashed over him. Yet it seemed impossible that the crew should have suddenly mutinied, when there had been no signs of discontent up to the moment when Professor Bucknell went mad.

Alone, he might have felt that he could face them, but with Florence in his charge, he realized suddenly that as little as he longed to parley, he must make terms, and before all other conditions, see to it that her safety was assured.

"I don't know what it means, Florence," he panted, moving his right arm, growing numb from a blow that had fallen on his shoulder. "I can't understand their actions. They wouldn't turn as I ordered, and the captain threatened me when I insisted that we go back home."

"But, Dick," she pleaded, her hand falling on his arm beseechingly, "they must make back! Where else can we go?"

He was beside himself with anxiety, but he strove to steady his voice.

"It's just a misunderstanding, I guess. Perhaps I was too insistent. We'll get at the bottom of it some way. I'll fix it up."

He moved a step toward the passage.

"Don't go!" she begged, her face blanching.

He slipped his arm about her as she swayed toward him.

"It's all right, Florence," he whispered. "It looks bad now, but no harm shall come to you. I'll see to that."

"There are so many. Oh, it is terrible!"

"Yes, yes," he nodded. "But they'll give up, you'll see. They're not going to make another attack. You can reach your state-room?"

"Dick!" she begged. "You musn't leave me!"

He cast a glance about, striving to decide what course to pursue, trying to think at what point it would be best for them to take up their stand.

The steady throbbing of the engines, the faint rise and fall of the ship as it glided on over a comparatively smooth sea, were the only signs of life, the only evidence that the crew still manned the vessel.

"Wait a minute," he urged. "I will try to get Stockman down here."

He stepped toward the companion.

"Hallo there, on deck!" he called.

Some one moved; but no answer was made to the hail, and he repeated it. Still no answer, and he turned doubtfully. The lights had been put out in the passage, and in the shadows he thought he caught a glimpse of some one moving.

"Steward," he bellowed, "tell Captain Stockman I want to see him."

"Aye, aye, sir!" came the answer.

"Sit down, do," he begged of Florence, who stood, wide-eyed, in the middle of the cabin, her face flushed with alarm. "I'll make terms with the captain." She sank into a near-by chair, elbow on knee, her long, delicate fingers clasped tightly together. It seemed as if she must be moving in a horrible nightmare; that the attack of the crew, following her father's sudden madness and death, could not be real.

Suddenly she should awake and know then that the steady vibration of the engines was bearing them on, as it had for days past, on their voyage to an unknown island.

She glanced at Wainwright, a tense figure, holding to the middle of the cabin, revolver in hand, his eyes turning first to the companionway, then to the passage.

Ten minutes  --- ten nerve-racking, anxious minutes  --- passed, and still the captain failed to appear. Then a step came along the port deck, and a man's feet appeared at the aft companion-way.

"Captain Stockman?" Wainwright questioned.

"Captain Stockman's, laid up, sir." "Who's that, then?"

"Davis, sir; second mate. Mr. Munroe is done for, too"

"Are you in command now?"

"Of the deck, sir; yes."

"Isn't it possible for Captain Stockman to see me?"

"I think not, sir."

"How's the ship headed?"

"Due north."

Wainwright moved forward and glanced at the sky. He was unable, however, is make out from the stars whether the man spoke the truth of not.

Florence had straightened with a look closely approaching relief, but as she caught sight of the doubtful expression on Wainwright's face she sank back in her chair, the momentary hope quickly passing. Wainwright was absolutely puzzled, and dared not move from Florence's side.

"Go tell Captain Stockman that he must see him. He's not so badly hurt but what he can come here. It's imperative."

"If you would go to him," the second mate suggested.

"No!" Wainwright thundered; scenting a trick. "Tell him to join me at once."

It occurred to him that, no matter for what reason the Sea-Gull was being held to her southern course, the only thing desired by Stockman was to keep him from insisting upon the ship being turned back.

"I'll see, sir," the second mate replied. Wainwright moved forward, and at that instant there was a shriek from Florence's lips as she leaped to her feet.

Out of the darkness of the passage charged four men, as at the same instant the second mate wheeled and with one leap was in the cabin, two sailors after him.

Wainwright flung the empty pistol at the nearest man, and backed up against the wall. Two sailors then seized Florence, and, Wainwright dashed through the encircling men in an effort to reach her side.

A foot went out, he tripped and fell heavily, and the next instant was borne down and held, as Florence, a rough hand stifling her cries, was dragged from the cabin.

It was the second mate who spoke, and in an instant Wainwright's arms were bound to his sides and a cord passed round his ankles. The men who held him leaped back as he was made fast, and stood for an instant, stolidly indifferent as he struggled to free himself.

"All right!" Davis ordered, and he motioned toward the prisoner.

Two sailors stooped and lifted Wainwright from the floor and deposited him in a chair.

"Job done, sir," Davis called, and the next instant Stockman came down the companionway.

With a motion he ordered the men back on deck, and dropped into a chair opposite his prisoner.

"You cur!" Wainwright hissed, and, struggling up, he attempted to throw himself upon the captain. His feet, tied as they were, made it impossible for him to stand, and he reeled and would have fallen had not Stockman thrown out a hand and pushed him down into the chair.

"Come, come, sir!" the captain spoke in a fairly smooth tone, "there is no need for you to cut up rough. I had to do it. But, listen to me. There's no harm meant either to you or the young lady."

Wainwright, fully realizing the folly of further resistance, grasped at what hope he could find in the captain's words. His face, however, was dark with anger and his eyes flashed dangerously.

"What do you mean, by such actions? Don't you know that when I get back to San Francisco I can have every one of you thrown into prison?"

"You won't do anything of the kind," the captain shook his head. "You see, sir, I'd have had to shut you up sooner or later, and I'd have done it quiet-like. It would have been better that way."

Wainwright glared.

"What do you mean? You'd had to shut who up?"

"You and the young lady; and the professor, if he hadn't ended himself."

"Shut us up! What for?"

"I've got a little job on hand. It isn't well for you or Miss Bucknell to know anything. about it."

"A job on hand!" Wainwright demanded. "What do you mean? I want an explanation."

Stockman leaned forward, a frown and a smile blending.

"You've done up a good share of my crew, and they're sore. They'd like to take it out of you; but I'm for having no trouble, even if your Mr. Bucknell did come pretty near to putting me out of commission." "That's got nothing to do with this job, as you call it. Your crew brought it on themselves, and all they got they deserved. You are still heading south, when I have ordered you to turn."

"Yes, we're heading south; and if you hadn't fussed over that matter, none of this trouble would have come."

"Look here!", Wainwright choked back the anger which seemed to preclude sane thought. "Chartering this boat makes you nothing more than an employee. You've got no more right to alter the course I prescribed than has one of your sailors. I demand again that you put about for San Francisco."

"And I tell you right now that we are not going to put about yet a while. We are close down on the coast of South America, Mr. Wainwright, and I expect to meet a friend of mine somewhere in these waters." "You won't know anything about it, for I'm going to shut you up in your cabin. After I've seen my friend, we'll turn about if you say so. I don't care then whether we chase up this island and the monkey-man I heard you and your professor talking about or not."

"My order to turn back shows clearly that I have no intention of searching out the island now that Professor Bucknell is dead." "I see. Well, we'll turn back after a while."

"But again I demand that you turn now."

Stockman got up with a shrug.

"There's no use in discussing the thing," he suggested, pacing up and down the cabin. "You can be well satisfied when I tell you that no harm will be done to Miss Bucknell or to you. We'll land you safe enough in America, provided you agree to say nothing to the authorities about what has happened."

"You see," the captain rattled on, "even after you dragged me to the stern-deck, I'd have let the thing pass, for a quiet settlement would have been best, and just shut you up while we went on with our business. Munroe, however, lost his head, and, with a fight started, there was nothing to do but just to put you away safely."

The explanation of the captain's motives seemed rather preposterous; but Florence's safety was Wainwright's first concern, and he took heart from the explanation and felt half ready to accept the sailor's assurances.

"I'm to understand, then, that you are going on about some affair of your own, and after that has been carried out we'll turn back?"

"Exactly," Stockman nodded.

"Then release me; release Miss Bucknell. There's no necessity for treating us in this way. If you'd explained the thing before, you'd have saved a few broken heads and a good deal of anxiety."

"If I'd told you what I wanted to do, would you have consented? I guess not!" the captain shrugged.

Wainwright struggled to his feet.

"You insist; you assure me  --- this is man to man now, all differences buried  --- that no harm is to be done to Miss Bucknell?"

"Absolutely none," Stockman agreed. "I'm a gentleman, though you may not see it that way."

"Unloosen this rope, and let me go to her."

The captain considered Wainwright through narrowing eyes.

"Don't you understand, man?" Wainwright hurried on. "Miss Bucknell has had a terrible shock. Think of it  --- her father's death, and this attack on your part! It's enough to drive any one mad."

The captain nodded.

"I'm not much of a hand dealing with women. I guess you're right. She's a likely-looking girl. I'm kind of sorry the fuss had to come."

He knelt down as he spoke, and untied the rope round Wainwright's legs. "She's in her stateroom; go ahead. Give her all the assurance you want."

He handed a bunch of keys to his prisoner.

"I'm taking your word for it."

"You may. The agreement is that we're going on and tend to the business I have in hand; you and the young lady shut up, so as not to interfere. After that we land you at home, but you say nothing of what's happened."

"Nothing, if you will hold to your agreement that no harm is done."

"Right!" Stockman nodded. "It's bargain."

Wainwright turned down the passage with a feeling of tremendous relief. There was something about the captain's manner that confirmed the impression of truthfulness; and he decided that, after all, the explanation of the attack was to be found in Stockman's desire to carry out undisturbed some undertaking which at the moment he found no time to puzzle over.

"I'll wait here," Stockman called as Wainwright paused before Florence's stateroom. "You come back. I want to talk with you further."

Wainwright knocked on the door.

"Florence," he called, "it's all right."

"Dick, Dick!" came a sobbing voice.

"Yes," in reassuring tones; and, though his arms were bound to his side, he managed to insert the key Stockman had given him in the lock. Throwing the door open, he stepped across the threshold.

"Florence, Florence!" he whispered, his voice breaking as he gazed upon her sitting with bound hands by the port. Tears flooded her eyes and great sobs shook her body.

"Dick," she begged, rising, "what is it? What does it mean?

"It's all right, he assured her. "Don't

you worry another moment. I've had a talk with the captain. It's all right  --- all right."

"But your arms are bound. Look at me!" She held out her hands.

"He'll have to take those things off, and at once."

"But why have they done this?"

Speaking in a soothing tone, he imparted briefly what little information he had secured from Stockman.

"But do you believe him?" she demanded.

"I do. Why, it is hard to say; but I think, some way, he's honest. When I spoke of your position and demanded the right to come to you, he agreed instantly, and something in his manner then convinced me of his sincerity more than anything else."

"But where are they going to take us? What are they going to do?"

"I don't know. He won't tell us. I suppose we must be thankful that it's no worse."

For half an hour the two talked together, and gradually Florence's alarm passed, as did Wainwright's anger. There was nothing for them to do but accept the inevitable, and they did so with the best grace possible.

At last the captain came down the passage.

"Look here," Wainwright demanded instantly, "loosen these ropes. There's no sense in keeping either of us tied up."

"I'll set the young lady free; but I'm taking no chances with you, Mr. Wainwright."

"Why?" came the instant demand. "Because what you told me was a lie?"

Wainwright's suspicions and anger flashed up anew as he studied the man in the doorway.

"Not a bit of it," Stockman replied. "I made a bargain, and I'll hold to it."

"You made a bargain in San Francisco, when I chartered this boat, but you don't hold to that."

The captain shrugged.

"This job I've got on hand, I purposed carrying out, even then. I might as well tell you now."

"So you chartered the boat under false colors?"

"If you will."

He stepped across the room and unloosened the rope about Florence's wrists.

"There you are, Miss Bucknell." His tone was less gruff. "I'll ask you to keep to your stateroom. Come, Mr. Wainwright."

"Where to?"

"To your room. It's just as well for you to keep out of sight of the crew. They don't feel very kindly toward you."

"Dick, don't go," Florence begged. "Stay here with me. I can't be left alone!"

Wainwright cast a glance at the captain.

"You'll have to come."

He spoke in a low voice to Florence.

"I know it's all right," he urged. "I'll get him to let me join you again."

She sank back resignedly, and Wainwright followed the captain to his cabin. The rope which bound his arms was loosened, Stockman stepped into the passage, closed the door and the bolt turned,

For an instant Wainwright stood undecided, hesitating, his alarm and fear springing up anew as he found himself locked in. He felt that at the last he should have offered further resistance, and yet the hopelessness of such an attempt was too apparent to make him think that he could have bettered their position in any way.

Still, he could not put out of mind the thought of Florence, shut up in her stateroom alone, surrounded by the dread and anxiety which must be hers. He realized then, vaguely, how much she was to him, what the six months in San Francisco had meant, and his anxiety grew apace.

What if the captain had lied to him? A man who was guilty of chartering his boat under false pretenses, who had led the attack upon him, was certainly capable of a lie. No means of escape opened before them.

They were prisoners of a crew bent on a mission of which he had no knowledge, controlled, he had no doubt, by impulses which might yet place their safety in greater jeopardy.

Once a day Stockman allowed them to meet, but the balance of the time he kept them locked in their staterooms.

To do the man justice, such a course was against his wish, but he bowed to the prevailing opinion among the crew, who had suffered at Wainwright's hands, and objected strenuously to his being given his liberty.

The plight in which Florence found herself was in a way a relief, for the danger and anxiety seemed to soften her grief more than anything else could have done. She realized, from what Dick had told her, that Captain Stockman would have first undertaken his own venture, and she knew that if her father had lived and such a course had been attempted, it would have worked upon his nervous condition with disastrous results.

For a year she had labored under the fear that her father was addicted to a drug, and as much as she bemoaned his death, she had the courage to acknowledge that the bereavement which had come to her was for the best. She had never hidden the truth of her father's condition from herself, but had acknowledged that the time would come when his impaired health must fall a victim to the cause.

The horror attending the end would have been far more awful, had not her own plight and that of Wainwright's forced itself upon her mind. With courage she spoke of these things when she and Wainwright met, and found added help in his presence.

Her appeal to him stirred more and more his regard for her, and on one occasion he was tempted to voice the love he felt, but hesitated, with the feeling that such a declaration should wait their return home.

"We'll go East as soon as we get back to San Francisco," she suggested.

"Yes," he agreed. "You'll go to your aunt?"

She nodded.

"And you?"

"I shall return. There are many things for me to finish up. I think your father would have wanted the work continued."

"This trip, however, which he seemed to think meant so much, will have to go uncompleted."

"True," he agreed. "I think we will let the island and the monkey-man rest."

"And yet it would have been a tremendous thing, if he could have accomplished it."

"If it had turned out as he expected. It ought to be settled some day," he agreed, his professional nature longing for a solution of the question. "It will have to be left for some one else. Possibly Professor Haverill will undertake it."

They had been running through a smooth, glassy sea for two days, when the wind began to freshen, and the third night a violent storm swept down upon the ship.

The Sea-Gull, while a small boat, had been built for ocean-cruising, and yet the tempest in which she found herself made it virtually impossible for Captain Stockman to hold his course.

At last he was forced to veer eastward, and with the rolling, hissing waves astern, the engines were slowed down, and the boat allowed to run with the wind. The rain hissed and fell, the wind drove the sea into wild, mad masses of towering waves, and gradually to Stockman and his crew it became apparent that they were in the grip of a storm which, unless it spent itself quickly, would tax the Sea-Gull's staunchness to the full.

Two attempts were made after they changed their course, to run toward the coast, and each effort proved futile, and finally, they were forced to come about and surrender themselves to the mad fury of the rushing waves.

The towering green ocean swept about them, wave after wave beat down upon the stern. The Sea-Gull rose on a crest, to plunge bow down, creaking in every joint, the blades racing madly as the stern lifted, until it seemed that she would never rise again.

Boats, lashed as they were, were swept overboard, the deck-rail broken and carried away, while over the deck ran a torrent of water, making it impossible for anyone to stand against it.

The captain, with his mates and three sailors, held to the bridge, lashed in their places, and did all that seamen could do to spare the boat.

The blackness of the night changed but little when dawn broke, for overhead, for an unlimited distance, the storm- clouds enveloped the towering gray-green waves, and soon it became impossible to tell the course they were pursuing or the distance they had been swept on by the raging sea. On the second day the deck-house forward was carried away as the vessel plunged, nose down, into a gigantic wave. An hour later water was reported to be making rapidly in the hold, and the pumps were started.

Sleep was impossible: there was not a dry spot on the entire boat. Cabin windows were smashed, battered, to be smashed again, and down the passage and into the staterooms the sea made its way, to run inches deep

Up and up the vessel mounted, to a dizzy height, only to plunge down into the trough of the sea when, crashing, with a roar of thunder, a wave would break over its entire length.

The steward had served Florence and Wainwright at noon, bringing them the best that he could prepare under existing conditions, and had left, promising Wainwright to send Captain Stockman to him.

The captain, however, failed to respond, and night settled down without the reappearance of the steward. That individual had endeavored to carry out his promise, only to emerge from the companionway as a wave came aboard and hurled him down the stairs and a torrent of water poured through the open doorway.

It was an hour later when a sailor found him dead, and closed the door against the further flooding of the ship.

The night came on, the storm apparently increasing in fury, and at last Wainwright, driven desperate, undertook to gain his liberty.

The door resisted his blows, and at last, seizing upon a chair, he demolished the upper panels. Above the fury of the storm and the creaking and groaning of the ship the sound of his blows could hardly be heard.

At last he forced his way into the passage, to stand ankle-deep in the running water.

Grasping the door-knob, he hung for an instant, and then started to make his way aft.

With the pitching of the ship, he was thrown first against one wall, then the other. Twice he fell to his knees, but at last came to Florence's stateroom, bruised and battered. He pounded frantically on the panel, and then, realizing that his blows were hardly audible even to himself, he began to shout.

"Florence! Florence!" he cried.

No answer came, and, filled with fear and apprehension lest something might have befallen her, he rained blow after blow upon the panels. It was virtually impossible to keep to his feet without hanging to the doorknob, and consequently his efforts proved futile.

He cast about for some implement with which to demolish the door, and, seeing none, staggered aft toward the cabin.

Forcing the door open, he stepped into the darkness, to leap back as, with a tilt of the ship, the furniture came hurling down upon him. The table in the middle of the room had broken from its fastenings, and that, with the chairs and other appointments, was dashing from one side to another, splintering the walls and playing havoc with the interior of the cabin.

As the ship lurched to starboard and the mass of furniture went crashing across the room, he again threw open the door and leaped in, in the hope of seizing a chair with which he could return to the attack of Florence's stateroom.

There was a quick lifting of the ship, she shot downward, bow first, and Wainwright was hurled against the wall, striking his head. Stunned with the blow, he still had sense enough to realize that he must get clear of the charging mass of furniture. Crawling on hands and knees, he reached the door into the passage.

With all his strength he threw it open, and was about to leap through when he was hurled against the port-wall, and the furniture came crashing toward him.

He made a move to get out of the way as the mass, with the fury of a frenzied animal, swept on, and the next instant, carried by the force of the blow and his effort, he was hurled senseless into the passage.

Struggling to his feet, it took him an instant to grasp the situation, and then he realized that the ship was pitching less than when he had entered the cabin. Above deck, however, the storm still raged, timbers creaked and groaned, while aft the mass of loose furniture still dashed about.

Making his way down the passage, he pounded at Florence's cabin, and this time was able to make his shouts heard.

"Are you all right?" he cried.

"Yes, yes. Open the door!"

"One moment," he begged, and making his way forward, he found a chair in one of the staterooms, and with it returned to the attack on the door.

Reeling back and forth, keeping his feet as best he could, he struck again end again, and finally, with the chair splintered to bits, he drove in the lock of the door.

Leaping through, he seized Florence as she clung frantically to the berth.

"The worst is over, I think," he shouted. "The storm seems to be abating." She nodded, hardly able to. speak.

"We are pitching less," he cried again."

"Can't we get to the cabin?"

He shook his head.

"Go forward; it's the only way."

With his. arm about her, he drew her into the passage, and they moved slowly toward midship.

A sailor came dashing down the stairs and paused as he saw them.

"You're clear, are you?" he bellowed. "The captain sent me down."

Before Wainwright could answer, the man turned and dashed for the deck again, a bunch of keys dangling in his hand.

Florence clung to Wainwright and together they managed to reach the dining-saloon.

"Wait here," he suggested. "I'll see what's going on."

"Don't, Dick; don't go on deck. You'll be swept overboard!"

"The sailor made it. I can. I must try and find out what's happened. The engines seem to be stopped."

He struggled back into the passage, floundered through the water which was everywhere about, and crawled on hands and knees up the steps. The door at the head opened out, and he threw it back as the ship rolled into the trough of the waves.

Clinging to the door-jamb, he peered across the deck, through a blinding, driving mist of flying spray, to where the waves rose and fell like angry, hissing monsters. They seemed terrible in their height, although the worst of the storm was over and the sea was a little bit quieter than it had been for the past two days.

Watching the cant of the vessel, Wainwright leaped through the open doorway and closed it after him.

A life-line was stretched along the deck, and, seizing that, he started forward. Halfway to the bridge, the ship again settled into the trough, and he clung, waiting for it to right itself.

It's nose was buried under a wave which came rushing down the decks, and, with all his strength, Wainwright was just barely able to cling to the life-line and keep himself from being washed overboard.

He started to draw back, feeling the folly of attempting to go farther, when, above the wind, a shout came to his ears.

The next instant, straight ahead of him, he seemed to see for a second a black, tumbling mass, and suddenly there was a terrific crash.

The ship shook from bow to stern, she lifted slightly at the head as a wave rolled under her, and then came down again with a shock that threw him to his knees.

There was a sound of grinding, splintering wood, a mass of wreckage swept by, and then shouts and cries rung in his ear.

"We've struck! We've struck."

Sailors seemed to spring up from every point.

A man dashed by as another wave swept from stern to bow, and, before Wainwright could move, a sailor, who had been checked by the rushing water, was swept from sight over the deck.

Turning, Wainwright crawled back toward the companion- door, clinging to the life-line, and, once within, dashed down the steps. Again the ship lifted, to come crashing down on the rocks.

"Florence, Florence!" he cried.

The girl, wild-eyed, rushed from the dining-saloon to meet him.

"We have struck!"

"Yes!" she panted. Suddenly she drew taut. "It's the end!"

"No, no!" he cried. "Quick!"

He drew her back into the saloon.

"What are we to do?" she demanded.

He turned with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"On deck!"

As they dashed into the passage, a life-preserver was washed by, and, seizing it, he drew Florence against the wall. "Here," he panted, and, as the vessel again lifted, hurling them across the passage, he managed to slip it about her.

Men, calling and shouting, dashed by, and, with one arm round Florence, Wainwright went struggling up the steps.

"Get hold of this line!" he called, and, pushing Florence in front of him, the two grasped the rope."

"Can you hold there?" he demanded.

She nodded, and he started forward.

A hissing wave came rolling aboard as he moved, and, with a leap, he was again at her side, his arms about her, his hands grasping the life-line on both sides of her waist. So they clung as wave after wave swept over them.

It seemed as if the ship must break to pieces any instant, that it was impossible for it to live in such a sea, that before they could move a step the deck would give way under their feet, sweeping them into the angry, seething, green ocean.

"Forward!" Wainwright bellowed. With one hand on the life-line, the other round Florence's waist, he pushed her ahead of him, and slowly they gained the forward deck. One glance showed the bridge deserted.

"Where's the captain? Where are the men?" she begged.

On the forward deck they were comparatively sheltered, although the ship trembled with each wave that broke over it.

"I will look for a boat," he called. "Stay here."

He attempted to make his way aft along the starboard side, to be met by a wave that drove him back. Hurled from his feet, he was washed forward, clawing out and struggling to grasp the smooth deck, and then save himself from being carried overboard. At last the rushing water swept by, and he managed to crawl to his hands and his knees.

From his eyes he brushed the salt spray, and shook his head like a huge animal.

"It's no use!" he cried. "No one can live on that deck!"

"But the crew!" Florence begged.

He straightened with a great intaking of breath, and stood beside her in the shelter of the deck-house.

"Heaven knows! If there was a boat left, they've put off in it."

Through wide-open eyes she stared into the gray mist of flying spray. It seemed that at last the end of the horrors that possessed her had come. Help was impossible, and together they must face whatever might follow.

Wainwright strained his eyes to catch some sight of the black mass he had seen loom up as the ship struck.

"There must be land somewhere," he shouted. "We're on the rocks. On a reef. I think I saw land ahead of us."

She turned, hope springing up at his words.

"Get a life-preserver; we may be able to get ashore!"

"Not in this sea. If the ship will only hold out!" he cried. "If we can stay here until the storm ceases."

They dropped to the deck, partially sheltered from the wind and waves, although a couple of inches of curling green water ran about their limbs. For an hour they waited, speaking but little, seeing no signs of the crew. Twice the vessel rose, to crash again upon the rocks.

"If it will only hold," Wainwright whispered. He ventured once as far as the stern, but returned almost instantly, as there seemed no possibility of getting below and nothing was to be gained by such an attempt. As he came back, Florence sat, her head sunk on her bosom, her dark hair hanging damp about her forehead.

"I think the storm's abating." He spoke encouragingly. "The ship's holding out well; we'll get ashore."

"But where can we be? What land?" "I don't know," he shook his head. "There's no way of telling where we were driven. But land, any land, is better than this. That's our only hope."

"Dick," her land slipped into his, "it's the end!"

"No, no!" he urged, drawing her to him.

"It is the end," she sobbed, her head sinking to his shoulder. "I feel it, I know it!"

"You're unstrung  --- nervous," he whispered. "It is horrible, terrible, all that you have had to go through. But we'll win out; don't you fear," and hardly realizing what he did, his lips touched her forehead.

She glanced up with a little plaintive smile.

"Well be together."

"Yes," he whispered, "you and I, Florence, but it isn't the end. We'll win, out." As he spoke, a huge wave lifted the stern, and as, the ship settled again, she was swung broadside on the reef. The deck canted dangerously, but the two managed to cling to their position.

"This is better," he urged. "She's almost on her side. And see, the waves break against her; they don't lift her any more." The encouragement he strove to put into his words failed when the next roller threw the vessel farther onto the reef and more on her keel. The second wave caught her under the stern again, and she was swung farther around.

"Quick!" Wainwright cried, noting a roller coming down on them.

He leaped to his feet, seized Florence to drag her to the port side, for as the ship changed her position they we left where the waves broke down on them. Before they could move the towering mass of green came thundering aboard.

Wainwright reached out, a cry echoed from Florence's lips.

"Dick! Dick!"

He heard it above the seething, rushing torrent of water, and then as he strove to gain her side, she was carried from him.

He went to his knees and his arms clutched out, as though he strove to check the force of the water. He saw Florence swept across the deck and out of sight, and then, as a second wave picked him up, he crashed head first into the deck-house.

The blow stunned him for a second, but the driving, salt water, though it blinded his sight, seemed to make him realize his position; he must reach Florence. In a way he had the feeling that she was still on deck. His fingers clawed at the wet plank; another wave swept him to the edge, and there, clinging to the broken rail, he hung, trying to regain his senses.

What could he do; how could he get back to the deck? That was the one thought that seemed to beat upon his brain. Florence was on the deck. He could not, some way, remember that she had been swept overboard. He must clamber back.

There was a dull, heavy pain in his head, and gradually his fingers grew numb with their grip upon the rail.

The deck, the deck! That was the beating cry that seemed literally to possess him; although, coupled to it, was the thought of Florence.

Wave after wave pounded down upon him, and then gradually he seemed to lose all sense of reason.

There was no object in life, he just lay there, thrown back and forth, striking the broken rail, and then the deck, while his fingers grew more and more numb, and at last slipped from their hold on the stanchion.

Another comber came pounding down, and he was swept into the green, angry water.

He dimly recalled being washed over-board and he had a hazy recollection of what seemed an interminable length of time during which he clung to a rock, beaten and tossed by the waves. This immediately followed his being washed from the deck, and was the period in which he hung to the reef upon which the vessel had stranded.

While it seemed that he was tossed, pounded and battered until his flesh had lost all feeling, he really lay but a short time in the shelter of the ship's hull, where the sea was comparatively quiet.

He had no recollection of being swept from his position, but finally, as he was borne across the open water between the reef and a sandy stretch of beach, he partially regained his senses, and as a wave picked him and bore him toward the shore, he made a feeble attempt to swim.

His limbs, however, refused to respond to the effort, and he gave up the struggle with a feeling that it was useless to fight against the sea. He was tossed back forth, closer to the sand, then, on a receding wave carried seaward.

If he had had his senses, he could easily reached the beach, and although in a dull way he was conscious of the land ahead of him, he had neither the will-power nor the desire to fight for safety.

At last, however, his leaden feet dragged down, and as they touched the sand, he stirred to the point of making a final effort to gain safety.

He attempted to stand erect, floundered forward and fell in less than four feet of water, face down.

His fingers, numb and bleeding, dug into the sand, while there was a tremendous rush of water in his ears and mouth.

He might, even then, have drowned, had not the thought of Florence come to him in a dull way. It seemed that he heard her calling, and straight ahead was the sloping deck of the boat. He thought that he still clung to the broken rail, while she was only a few feet above him, begging for his aid.

He drew his knees under him, floundered to his feet, and, with outstretched arms, staggered ahead. In two steps he was down; but now certain that he heard Florence's voice, positive that he could save her, he again struggled forward.

The boom of the surf was in his ears; his eyes, filled with the salt rime, stung like fire, and his throat was puckered from the water he had swallowed, until, when he tried to answer the cry which his imagination heard, no sound came from between his lips.

He tossed back his wet hair, went on, fell, rose again, and finally pitched onto the sand.

There was no strength left to urge his tired limbs to action  --- the voice that had called to him was gone, and he lay for a second, feeling that a hundred men had charged down upon him, that the chair he tried to swing above his head flew from his hand, that the revolver clicked and clicked, and would not go off.

So he lay, face downward, a dripping, disheveled figure, and the night passed, and dawn broke.

It was then that his senses began to return, and finally he crawled to his knees and sank down on the beach. At first the incidents of the night came back in a vague, disjointed way, while he sat, head bowed, without the desire or strength to move, but drawing deep breaths, and gradually his mind cleared, and he looked about him with some show of interest.

He was on a long, sandy stretch of beach; behind him the ground rose rough and rocky, while to right and left a few palm-trees bent in the breeze.

A shrub or two, close down by the shore, broke the line between the white sands and the red-brown rocks. Up over the beach, to his very feet, the waves curled in long, white foam, while overhead innumerable gulls circled close to the cliff.

As the desire to take notice first came to him, he had turned to the land, but now he rose and staggered forward, with the thought of bathing his face and hands in the waves.

His fingers stung and smarted, and, as he went on trying to wash the wounds, he realized that it was the salt water which brought the pain, and he drew back hastily and straightened to gaze out ahead of him.

A hundred yards from where he stood the ship lay on her side, and the gaping hole in her hull was clearly visible. The bow, crushed in when she struck, was being riddled by the waves.

They dashed against her, and foamed and curled and broke through the gaps in her side with a hoarse roar. The sight fascinated him, and he stood watching, his eyes on a loosened plank, wondering how long it would hold out against the sea.

The sun, mounting higher in the heavens, partially dried his clothes, and in the brilliant glitter on the sweeping gray-green ocean even the ship, battered and torn as it was, took on a look of beauty.

It seemed that, for all the gaping holes, she must be able, if brought to an even keel, to again ride the waves. Her decks swept clean gave the impression of having been dressed by the hand of man, rather than the elements, and although the forward deck-house and a portion of the bridge were swept away, the substructure, for all its broken and battered appearance, looked fit to again house a crew.

It was Wainwright's impression for an instant that he should make back to the vessel, and he stepped forward into the waves at his feet, half thinking to plunge in and swim out.

And then he glanced along the shore  --- planks bobbed and danced on the waves; a mattress floated back and forth, borne on, swept seaward, like some creature chained to the will of the sea.

Where was the crew  --- where were the men against whom he had fought  --- where was Captain Stockman  --- Munroe?

Then he thought of Florence, and recalled suddenly that she had been swept overboard, when, for the instant, as he stood staring at the wreck, he had almost unconsciously been possessed of the feeling that she was still aboard. That thought had prompted the desire to make out to the vessel.

He wheeled, and cast his eyes over the high, rocky cliff, and then half  --- frenzied at the thought of what his companion's fate must have been  --- he raced up and down the beach.

The bobbing bits of wreckage he scanned with wild, anxious eyes. He dashed out into the surf to capture a floating plank which, to his horror-stricken gaze, he had pictured with the form of the girl who was so much to him.

Up and down the beach he ran half a dozen times, to pause finally and charge himself with the necessity of sane action; yet, what could he do?

Straight in front lay the wreck; he had scanned the beach from the high promontory on the left to the jutting rocks on the right, and nowhere had he caught sight of Florence. She had gone overboard, as he had, and if the waves had carried her to the beach he must have found her.

The crew had apparently perished. Her fate must have been the same.

He remembered then that he had slipped a life- preserver about her, and that thought gave him hope and prompted him to search the shore again and again.

He stopped finally where the rocks came down on the left, and then he noted that a plank torn from the ship made in on the crest of a wave, hung steady not over twenty feet from the vessel, turned as if guided by some unseen hand, and floated off round the ledge of rocks.

He watched, fascinated, and finally, as another bit of wreckage performed the same queer action, he realized that the reefs which broke the rollers and formed a smooth sheet of water in front of the ledge must create a current which dragged the planks across the face of the rocks and out of his sight.

Hope, wild hope, sprang up on the instant.

If Florence had been caught in that current, she might yet have reached land, and he raced along the beach in an effort to find some way of rounding the perpendicular barrier of rock.

Twice he attempted to ascend the face of the cliff, to clamber up for five or six feet, and find farther ascent impossible. The stones under his hands were smooth and rounding, but here and there was a tiny rough spot, as if a bubble had formed on the surface and broken.

He noted that peculiarity as he hung to the face of the cliff, staring above him for some means of farther ascent, and it came to him then that the formation was volcanic, and with that, for the first time, he was impressed with the thought that he was on an island.

Foot by foot he worked along the cliff, finding no possible means of ascent until he finally reached the eastern edge of the beach.

Forcing his way through a clump of bushes, he clambered over a mass of boulders, and came suddenly upon what seemed be a well-worn track leading up the cliff.

It turned and twisted, but at last brought him out on top of the ledge directly above the narrow beach. Back of him a mass of cane and palms prevented his looking southward and across the island.

He was in a clearing, shut in by undergrowth on three sides. Straight below he saw the ship. He strove to make out the direction in which the current carried the wreckage, but was unable to do so.

An opening in the cane led toward the west, and as it was round that side of the land the planks had been swept, he pushed ahead.

So anxious was he to reach the shore that he failed to note that he traveled a fairly well worn path. His only thought was that the cane opened to his progress, and so he dashed on.

At last he turned into the brush, for the path led to the left, and he was anxious to get down close to the shore on the right.

Falling, breaking his way through the mass, he suddenly paused, with a wild beating of his heart, and wheeled with a cry. He had heard a sound behind him, and his only thought was that it must be Florence.

He called, and dashed back to the path he had left.

"Florence, Florence! It's Dick!"

There was a crackle in the underbrush ahead of him, and he leaped in that direction, calling out again and again.

At last he paused; the sound was gone, no answer came.

He turned into the dense undergrowth.

Fighting his way through thicket after thicket, clambering over rough piles of stone, he finally came out on a narrow ledge. Ahead of him was the endless sweep of ocean, straight below a sheer drop of one hundred feet, to where the green waves curled and eddied about the base of the cliff.

By hanging to a palm and leaning far out he could catch a glimpse of the broken end of the vessel. He looked down, a plank turned and twisted in a tiny whirlpool close in by the shore.

It seemed then that his heart ceased to beat.

He pictured Florence floating, as did the plank, her dark hair streaming like wet sea-weed; her face, which he had so often seen touched with laughter and animation, cold in death.

He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled to the edge of the cliff; and then, at the risk of falling to the waters below, he crawled along the narrow space between the sheer drop and the close-growing cane, with his eyes searching the curling foam directly under him.

Out ahead, at a distance of a hundred yards, the waves broke over the hidden reef, and it was between it and the cliff that the water ran smooth. A plank swept down past him, and he watched it with fascinated eyes.

It went on behind where he hung to the tangled cane; and so he turned, hope springing up again in his breast.

He strove first to follow the edge of the cliff; but, finding that impossible, and noting that the last bit of wreckage had passed from sight, he came back to the path.

Turning to the right, he pushed on, for, although under foot the ground was smooth and worn, the brush and vines arched overhead, and through them he was obliged to beat his way.

A sound at his back caused him to pause suddenly. There was no mistaking the fact that this time something had moved close at hand.

"What is it? Who is it?" he shouted.

A guttural exclamation, half a groan, came to his ears, and he wheeled to take two steps in the direction from which he had come

"Hallo!" he called; "some one there?" The wind rustled the leaves overhead; no other sound broke the silence.

"Florence, Florence!" he cried.

No answer; but the echo of his own words came to his ears, and so he turned and pushed on through the cane.

The path had swung closer to the edge, and he fought through the almost impenetrable undergrowth to have another look at the ocean.

In the smooth-running waters behind the reef he caught no sight of what he feared his eyes might fall upon; and, again making back to the path, he pushed on. The ground began to fall away, and suddenly he came out of the rank mass of trees through which he had been fighting his way since reaching the top of the cliff.

Smooth, round, glossy boulders dotted the slope, and over them he picked his way. Half-way down he caught a glimpse on his left of a second beach; while to the right, and straight ahead, larger boulders were piled up along the shore.

He stared about him, moved ahead a trifle, and a glance to the left convinced him that he was right in the thought that he was on an island, although a fair-sized one.

He made across the boulders toward the western shore, and his eyes again searched the water. A broken chair, caught between two rocks, flooded directly beneath him, and he clambered down the cliff, not over ten feet high, until he stood on a round boulder just sticking its head above the sea.

From this point he could look along the cliff he had been following, and with a single glance he turned back and again reached the sloping ground.

Then on he ran. He dashed to the beach, and swept it in one swift look. He suddenly leaned forward; again he had heard a sound, although it was impossible to locate the exact direction from which it had come.

The beach was empty.

He turned to his right, and suddenly he caught the flutter of a dark object from behind a rock.

"Florence, Florence!" From the shelter of a boulder, close down to the shore, a figure suddenly straightened, and with a shout he leaped forward.

"Dick, Dick!" she cried, and her eyes opened wide, and then filled with tears.

It seemed almost beyond belief that they both had escaped from the wreck.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded.

"No, no!" she answered, her voice trembling, her nerves so unstrung that she felt as if she must scream.

The tears which had been held back so many days flooded her eyes and she sank down, his arm about her. He drew her close, with her head on his shoulder, and whispered softly in her ear.

What he said he hardly knew, and certainly she was only conscious of his protecting arms, the sound of his voice, not the substance of his words.

"It's all right, all right, little girl. Don't you know," he, too, laughed hysterically, "I said we'd win out. We are safe  --- safe!"

It seemed that in finding her all his anxiety passed; for the moment he had no thought of their position.

"Dick, Dick!" she sobbed. "Is it really you?"

Her arms clung closer and closer, as if she feared that the horrors of the night had brought her to the verge of madness, and that in a moment she would realize that she was still alone.

"Of course it is, Florence. It's Dick. But don't talk, don't ask questions; cry  --- only cry."

He brushed back her tangled locks, and his lips touched her forehead.

She lay, her head buried on his shoulders for some time, and still he spoke in low whispers, and now and then he pressed her hand resting in his.

At last her sobs grew less; she sighed and, raising her head, smiled faintly upon him.

"We're all right, Florence. We're safe  --- you and I."

And then he pressed her two hands.

"Think of it, Dick; it's been terrible —horrible! I thought I was going mad."

"I think I was mad," he laughed, "until I saw you. I don't know how I got ashore; but I came to on the beach, and I searched and searched. I couldn't believe that I would ever find you."

"I have been here I don't know how long," she whispered, her eyes turning to the curling froth about the rocks, and then out across the reef where the waves boomed and broke in white-flaked foam. "I tried to swim," she went on, speaking slowly, "but it seemed impossible. I was tossed back and forth by one wave and then another, and if it had not been for the life-preserver I should have sunk."

"But you got here!"

"Yes," she nodded. "I think I was swept on by the waves. It was so dark, only the shriek of the storm sounded in my ears. At first I called  --- called for you." A faint little smile touched her lips. "And then I just let the waves carry me where they would. I don't know what I thought then; but suddenly the water grew smooth, and I was carried along, and then I bumped against the rocks; and, though it was impossible to see, I crawled up here."

"Yes," he agreed.

"How long the night was, and when dawn broke, I hadn't the courage or the strength to move. The waves on the reef seemed to fascinate me, and I sat watching them. I think I was dazed, and then I heard you call."

He urged her not to talk; and for a long while they sat side by side, and gradually the horror of her plight grew less; she came to speak in a more natural tone while in her eyes and on her lips the old winning smile he knew so well flashed again.

Finally he rose and held out his hand.

"I have only looked over a little of the island. Shall we explore? Do you feel strong enough?"

"Yes," she agreed, springing to her feet. "Strong enough and hungry enough, Dick." She looked at him doubtfully, and then a smile touched her lips. "What are we going to eat?"

"To eat!" He stared blankly; the thought of how they were going to live had hardly entered his mind in the crowding events of the morning. "We must look round; the ship is still on the reef; perhaps we can get something there."

"But look!" she cried, pointing."

"To be sure, of course; come on, there's our first breakfast!

They hurried up the slope to where the trees began, and finally Wainwright managed to dislodge a couple of coconuts from a tall tree. Drinking the milk, they went on their way to explore the island.

"I've been on this part; it's nothing but a tangled mass of cane and brush. Let's see what there is on the other side."

Crossing the slope at the bottom of which Florence had landed, they came to a sandy beach more extensive than the one on which Wainwright had been tossed.

Inland the trees and brush sprang up, and behind the green foliage the towering red-brown rocks could be plainly seen. He stood, pointing over the trees.

"That's the cliff up there that I was on. There's a beach the other side of it, and straight out is the wreck We should be able to go round through the woods. Shall we try?".

She nodded, and they started along the hard sand. Suddenly Florence paused and pointed to the beach.

"Look!" she cried.

Wainwright dropped to his knees and gazed at a series of marks in the sand. They were between four and five inches in diameter, and about a foot apart. He glanced up. into Florence's face.

"Tracks of some kind."

She knelt down, and together they examined the marks more carefully. The impressions were clear in the sand, each circle being almost perfect. Straight from the front of each was a triangular mark, much lighter than the round undulations.

"What kind of animal can it be? What a peculiar track."

He nodded, with a frown, and went on a little, to pause again, where in the sand was the imprint of a hand. The fingers had been set deep, the palm was indistinctly marked; but it was so large that when Wainwright came to lay his hand over it he only partially covered the indentation.

A puzzled thought suddenly came to him, but he said nothing for a moment. They went along."

"It looks as though it only had two feet," Florence suggested.

"Yes," he agreed. "It has only two feet."

"The hand-mark?" she questioned. "Could it be possible some of the crew escaped?"

"They may have, but they never made these marks."

The tracks leading on, crossed the beach, but where the sand was soft the imprint was less distinct. A fairly clear path led info the underbrush, and Wainwright stopped.

"I didn't think of it before, but there was a path over the cliff. I followed it."

He turned and went back to the beach, and, with a troubled brow and folded arms, stood studying the marks"

"What is it, Dick?" she questioned, stepping to his side. "Is it some terrible creature?"

"No, no." He shook his head, and then he glanced at her. "Don't you remember, Professor Haverill told us a story at breakfast the morning he left?"

A startled look flashed in her eyes.

"Yes," she whispered. "He spoke of tracks like these."

"Yes," she agreed.

"The monkey-man! he added.

"Dick, Dick!" Her hand fell on his-arm.

"Can it be possible?"

"The monkey-man," he mused. "We were well on our way; there's no telling how far or where the storm carried us."

She stood silent, as puzzled as was he, for it hardly seemed that chance could have brought them to the island which had been their destination when they set out.

Turning from the beach, they pressed through the brush and undergrowth, and traveled some time through a mass of twisting paths. Now and then they saw the tracks again; but, though they listened  --- for Wainwright now recalled the sounds he had heard when on the cliff  --- they caught no sight of any living creature, and heard no snapping twig or breaking bough which would indicate a near-by presence.

Coming out of the undergrowth, they emerged into a deep gorge. On their right a perpendicular wall of rock rose to a height of fifty feet. The cliff cut straight across the island, and under its shade the ground was bare and rocky.

Following along, they entered a defile which penetrated the ledge upon which Wainwright had clambered from the beach. The gorge ended in a point, the rocks on the right and left meeting and leaving between them a V-shaped space.

Up overhead on the right wall a ledge could be plainly seen, and above that the green palms and tropical trees waved in the air, almost shutting out a sky of turquoise blue.

The silence was oppressive, almost ominous, as they both searched the rocks and tangled brush with the thought that, possibly, behind the nearest cover the creature might be watching them.

Florence shuddered.

"It is cold in here," Wainwright agreed. "Let's get out and back onto the beach. Up above is the ledge I was on. We can't get back there in this direction."

They turned toward the wider part of the gorge, and were about to enter the woods when Florence glanced back.

"Dick, look!"

He wheeled sharply, and shot a look toward a five- foot ledge which broke the right-hand cliff half-way up.

"What was it?" he questioned.

"I thought I saw something move." They drew back into the shadow of the cane, and waited for some time, in the hope of again catching sight of the creature Florence had noted.

"I barely saw it," she explained. "It looked black, but it moved so quickly, I am not at all certain that it might not, by chance, have been a trick of the imagination."

"Or a shadow," he suggested. "I can't imagine how any animal could get onto that ledge."

He followed the narrow shelf of rock with his eyes. It ran from the end of the V-shaped gorge along the cliff, gradually sloping downward.

"Perhaps it drops suddenly to the shore," Florence suggested.

The trees shut out a sight of the farther end of the shelf, which, to all appearances, was formed as if a huge slice of the upper part of the cliff had been cut away, leaving the lower section some five feet thicker through.

"We can see later," he agreed. "We had better go back now. Coconuts are hardly a satisfying meal."

"But can we get anything from the wreck?"

"I doubt it, but we must try. The storm has gone down. Perhaps it will yet be possible to save some stores."

Her hand fell on his arm.

"Dick," she urged, "if this is the island Professor Haverill spoke of, think of what it means! The sailor told him it was uncharted."

That thought had been in his mind ever since they had caught sight of the tracks on the beach.

"You must remember that it was a good two years ago that the monkey man was first seen. Ten to one, it isn't the island, But even so, no doubt there are plenty of ships passing."

"Could we signal to them?"

"To be sure," he agreed. "We'll rig up a signal, and at any rate, if it is the island, and those are the tracks of the monkey-man, why, don't you see, he has lived here, and if that is possible, then, certainly, we can get along. We'll be rescued. Don't fear about that."

No further sight being had of the shadow which Florence had seen moving along the cliff, they went back through the brush and came out again on the beach.

The tracks were examined carefully once again, and the more Wainwright looked at them, the more convinced he was that they corresponded exactly with the description given by Professor Haverill. If it were true, they certainly could verify the question, perhaps capture the monkey-man.

The island was not so large but that it would be easy to trace and hunt down the animal. And yet the peculiarity of the marks in the sand!

The thought of a creature, of even the monkey species, with human features and the ability to talk, was startling; to be housed on a desert island with it, was a position to be approached and considered with due caution.

Wainwright looked in the direction indicated and, bidding her wait, hurried down over the rocks. One glance was sufficient, and his eyes turned apprehensively in Florence's direction and then back to the water, where floated the body of Captain Stockman.

He hesitated an instant and then passed round the boulder. When he glanced up again, Florence was standing by his side, her wide-open eyes on the face of the dead sailor.

"Dick!" she whispered.

"Go back and wait," he urged, "I will join you in a little while."

She divined his meaning.

"Let me help you?"

"No, no!" he insisted. "I'll do all that can be done for him. You go back."

She glanced toward the heavily wooded portion of the island. He seemed to read her thoughts.

"Wait here, then, behind the rock, if you don't want to go far away. Though, you know, Florence," he spoke with positiveness, "there is no danger, even if it is the monkey-man."

He realized that the fear of the unknown had seized upon her, even as it had on him to a slight extent, and so he did his best to allay her fears.

"I'd rather help," she begged.

"Come down to the beach, then."

She crossed the slope to the sands, while Wainwright secured a plank, caught in the rocks, and with it managed to bring Stockman's body around to the sandy shore.

Breaking the board in two, he dug a shallow grave, and silently, sobered in thought, with their plight made more terrible by the presence of death, they laid the captain of the Sea-Gull at rest.

Driving the boards at the head and the foot of the grave, Wainwright straightened himself.

"Come, Florence," he held out his hand. We have done all that we could. We must think now only of ourselves."

Up over the slope and through the tangled cane they made their way, to reach at last the beach where Wainwright had gained consciousness.

Straight ahead the vessel lay, battered and torn.

"We must move quickly," he suggested. "She's going to pieces fast. If we are to save anything, there is not a moment to lose."

"But how can we possibly reach her?"

The air-filled mattress which he had seen floating on the waves in the morning was still close to shore, and wading out, Wainwright dragged it to the beach.

"A weird kind of craft," he laughed, assuming a bantering tone, "but I think it will answer our purpose."

"What are you going to do?"

"The water's comparatively smooth between here and the ship. The reef, you see, breaks the force of the waves. I'll go aboard and save all that I can."

"Could I come with you?"

"It will never bear your weight. I'll swim and push it ahead of me."

He threw off his coat and shoes, and leaving Florence on the beach, pushed the mattress into the water. Wading out until up to his armpits, he began to swim, and finally felt the reef under his feet.

Climbing up, he found a rope hanging over the ship's side, and making the mattress fast by its lacings, he stood knee- deep in the water, searching for a means of clambering aboard.

Getting a grip on the broken deck-rail, he finally pulled himself up and stood on the canting deck of the ship. There was nothing left above board, and crawling along to the midship companionway, he started below.

He found the passageway and the stairs dry; but, going into the hold, he plunged waist-deep into water. Turning back, he hunted round until he secured a lamp, and lighting it, went down into the hold again.

In the engine-room he secured a number of tools and carried them to the cabin.

The hull was fairly steady; but he realized that, with the gaps in the side; it would be but a brief time before it would break apart, and so he hurried about the ship, collecting whatever he could that might prove of service to them.

He cleaned out the galley, packed up Florence's clothing that her dress-suit case would hold, collected his own effects, and then, realizing that the work had taken a considerable length of time, he went onto the deck.

"First load coming ashore!" he shouted.

Florence waved back.

The mattress proved an unwieldy craft when he came to load it down, and he was only able to carry a small portion of what he had collected in the cabin. It was necessary for him to drop over the side with each handful, and the first tins that he put on the mattress were lost as a wave canted his craft. Going back, he collected what he could in his arms and, swinging down, placed them on the mattress and pushed off.

Florence helped him unload, and, pulling the mattress up onto the beach, he waded back into the water.

"You can keep it," he laughed. "It will make a good bed. I'll build a raft as soon as I get back to the ship."

With a tin in one hand, she held out some water- soaked biscuit."

"Have luncheon?" she suggested."