only a vestige of the sun remained, far off, like a red spark floating on the water. It lingered, and all at once—without warning—went out as if extinguished by a treacherous hand.     

       “Gone,” cried Lingard, who had watched intently yet missed the last moment. “Gone! Look at the cabin clock, Shaw!”      

       “Nearly right, I think, sir. Three minutes past six.”      

       The helmsman struck four bells sharply. Another barefooted seacannie glided on the far side of the poop to relieve the wheel, and the serang of       the brig came up the ladder to take charge of the deck from Shaw. He came up to the compass, and stood waiting silently.     

       “The course is south by east when you get the wind, serang,” said Shaw, distinctly.     

       “Sou' by eas',” repeated the elderly Malay with grave earnestness.     

       “Let me know when she begins to steer,” added Lingard.     

       “Ya, Tuan,” answered the man, glancing rapidly at the sky. “Wind coming,”        he muttered.     

       “I think so, too,” whispered Lingard as if to himself.     

       The shadows were gathering rapidly round the brig. A mulatto put his head out of the companion and called out:     

       “Ready, sir.”      

       “Let's get a mouthful of something to eat, Shaw,” said Lingard. “I say, just take a look around before coming below. It will be dark when we come up again.”      

       “Certainly, sir,” said Shaw, taking up a long glass and putting it to his eyes. “Blessed thing,” he went on in snatches while he worked the tubes in and out, “I can't—never somehow—Ah! I've got it right at last!”      

       He revolved slowly on his heels, keeping the end of the tube on the sky-line. Then he shut the instrument with a click, and said decisively:     

       “Nothing in sight, sir.”      

       He followed his captain down below rubbing his hands cheerfully.     

       For a good while there was no sound on the poop of the brig. Then the seacannie 

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