It was by the first light of dawn that we saw, close on board, the metropolitan island of Hawaii.  We held along the coast, as near as we could venture, with a fresh breeze and under an unclouded heaven; beholding, as we went, the arid mountain sides and scrubby cocoa-palms of that somewhat melancholy archipelago.  About four of the afternoon we turned Waimanolo Point, the westerly headland of the great bight of Honolulu; showed ourselves for twenty minutes in full view; and then fell again to leeward, and put in the rest of daylight, plying under shortened sail under the lee of Waimanolo.

A little after dark we beat once more about the point, and crept cautiously toward the mouth of the Pearl Lochs, where Jim and I had arranged I was to meet the smugglers.  The night was happily obscure, the water smooth.  We showed, according to instructions, no light on deck:  only a red lantern dropped from either cathead to within a couple of feet of the water.  A lookout was stationed on the bowsprit end, another in the crosstrees; and the whole ship’s company crowded forward, scouting for enemies or friends.  It was now the crucial moment of our enterprise; we were now risking liberty and credit; and that for a sum so small to a man in my bankrupt situation, that I could have laughed aloud in bitterness.  But the piece had been arranged, and we must play it to the finish.

For some while, we saw nothing but the dark mountain outline of the island, the torches of native fishermen glittering here and there along the foreshore, and right in the midst that cluster of brave lights with which the town of Honolulu advertises itself to the seaward.  Presently a ruddy star appeared inshore of us, and seemed to draw near unsteadily.  This was the anticipated signal; and we made haste to show the countersign, lowering a white light from the quarter, extinguishing the two others, and laying the schooner incontinently to.  The star approached slowly; the sounds of oars and of men’s speech came to us across the water; and then a voice hailed us.

“Is that Mr. Dodd?”

“Yes,” I returned.  “Is Jim Pinkerton there?”

“No, sir,” replied the voice.  “But there’s one of his crowd here; name of Speedy.”

“I’m here, Mr. Dodd,” added Speedy himself.  “I have letters for you.”

“All right,” I replied.  “Come aboard, gentlemen, and let me see my mail.”

A whaleboat accordingly ranged alongside, and three men boarded us:  my old San Francisco friend, the stock-gambler Speedy, a little wizened person of the name of Sharpe, and a big, flourishing, dissipated-looking man called Fowler.  The two last (I learned afterward) were frequent partners; Sharpe supplied the capital, and Fowler, who was quite a character in the islands and occupied a considerable station, brought activity, daring, and a private influence, highly necessary in the case.  Both seemed to approach the business with a keen sense of romance; and I believe this was the chief attraction, at least with Fowler—­for whom I early conceived a sentiment of liking.  But in that first moment I had something else to think of than to judge my new acquaintances; and before Speedy had fished out the letters, the full extent of our misfortune was revealed.