long the brig rocked to the gentle swell of the Pacific, and the breeze blew, bringing with it the perfume of flowers. 

 

 

 CHAPTER X 

 THE TRAGEDY OF THE BOATS 

 When the fog lifted after midnight the people in the long-boat saw the quarter-boat half a mile to starboard of them. 

 “Can you see the dinghy?” asked Lestrange of the captain, who was standing up searching the horizon. 

 “Not a speck,” answered Le Farge. “Damn that Irishman! but for him I’d have got the boats away properly victualled and all; as it is I don’t know what we’ve got aboard. You, Jenkins, what have you got forward there?” 

 “Two bags of bread and a breaker of water,” answered the steward. 

 “A breaker of water be sugared!” came another voice; “a breaker half full, you mean.” 

 Then the steward’s voice: “So it is; there’s not more than a couple of gallons in her.” 

 “My God!” said Le Farge. “Damn that Irishman!” 

 “There’s not more than’ll give us two half pannikins apiece all round,” said the steward. 

 “Maybe,” said Le Farge, “the quarter-boat’s better stocked; pull for her.” 

 “She’s pulling for us,” said the stroke oar. 

 “Captain,” asked Lestrange, “are you sure there’s no sight of the dinghy?” 

 “None,” replied Le Farge. 

 The unfortunate man’s head sank on his breast. He had little time to brood over his troubles, however, for a tragedy was beginning to unfold around him, the most shocking, perhaps, in the annals of the sea—a tragedy to be hinted at rather than spoken of. 

 When the boats were within hailing distance, a man in the bow of the long-boat rose up. 

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