Captain Kettle whistled to himself long and dismally.  “Piled her up,” he muttered, “that’s what her old man has done.  Hit a half-ebb reef, and fairly taken root there.  He’s not shoved on his engines astern either, and that means she’s ripped away half her bottom, and he thinks she’ll founder in deep water if he backs her off the ground.”  A tiny spit of flame, pale against the moonlight, jerked out from under the awnings of the steamer’s upper bridge.  The noise of the shot came some time afterward, no louder than the cracking of a knuckle.  “By James! somebody’s getting his gun into use pretty quick.  Well, it’s some one else’s trouble, and not mine, and I guess I’m going to stay on the beach, and watch, and not meddle.”  He frowned angrily as though some one had made a suggestion to him.  “No, by James!  I’m not one of those that seeks trouble unnecessarily.”

But all the same he walked off briskly along the sand, keeping his eyes fixed on the stranded steamer.  That some sort of a scuffle was going on aboard of her was clear from the shouts and the occasional pistol shots, which became louder as he drew more near; and Captain Kettle, connoisseur as he was of differences of this sort on the high seas, became instinctively more and more interested.  And at last when he came to a small canoe drawn up on the beach above high-water mark, he paused beside it with a mind loaded with temptation as deep as it would carry.

The canoe was a dug-out, a thing of light cotton-wood, with washboards forward to carry it through a surf.  A couple of paddles and a calabash formed its furniture, and its owner probably lived in the village where he had sung for his dinner over-night.  Of course, to borrow her—­merely to borrow her, of course—­without permission was—­

Another splatter of pistol shots came from the steamer, and a yelping of negro voices.  Captain Kettle hesitated no longer.  He laid hands on the canoe’s gunwale, and ran her down into the edge of the surf.  He had barely patience to wait for a smooth, but, after three rollers had roared themselves into yeast and quietude, he ran his little craft out till the water was arm-pit deep, and then scrambled on board and paddled furiously.

But it is not given to the European to equal the skill of the black on African surf beaches, and, as might be expected, the next roller that swooped in overended the canoe, and sent it spinning like a toy through the broken water.  But Captain Kettle had gained some way; and if he could not paddle the little craft to sea, he could at least swim her out; and this he proceeded to do.  He was as handy as an otter in the water, and besides, there was something here which was dragging him to seaward very strongly.  His soul lusted for touch with a steamer again with a fierceness which he did not own even to himself.  Even a wrecked steamer was a thing of kinship to him then.