That the larger of these dreaded fish had died in the same manner there was no reason to doubt; but probably it had sunk in the deep water outside the barrier reef.

On Board the “Tucopia_.”

The little island trading barque Tucopia, Henry Robertson, master, lay just below Garden Island in Sydney Harbour, ready to sail for the Friendly Islands and Samoa as soon as the captain came on board.  At nine o’clock, as Bruce, the old, white-haired, Scotch mate, was pointing out to Mrs. Lacy and the Reverend Wilfrid Lacy the many ships around, and telling them from whence they came or where they were bound, the second mate called out—­

“Here’s the captain’s boat coming, sir.”

Bruce touched his cap to the pale-faced, violet-eyed clergyman’s wife, and turning to the break of the poop, at once gave orders to “heave short,” leaving the field clear to Mr. Charles Otway, the supercargo of the Tucopia, who was twenty-two years of age, had had seven years’ experience of general wickedness in the South Seas, thought he was in love with Mrs. Lacy, and that, before the barque reached Samoa, he would make the lady feel that the Reverend Wilfrid was a serious mistake, and that he, Charles Otway, was the one man in the world whom she could love and be happy with for ever.  So, being a hot-blooded and irresponsible young villain, though careful and decorous to all outward seeming, he set himself to work, took exceeding care over his yellow, curly hair, and moustache, and abstained from swearing in Mrs. Lacy’s hearing.

* * * * *

A week before, Mr. and Mrs. Lacy had called at the owner’s office and inquired about a passage to Samoa in the Tucopia, and Otway was sent for.

“Otway,” said the junior partner, “can you make room on the Tucopia for two more passengers—­nice people, a clergyman and his wife.”

“D——­all nice people, especially clergymen and their wives,” he answered promptly—­for although the youngest supercargo in the firm, he was considered, the smartest—­and took every advantage of the fact.  “I’m sick of carting these confounded missionaries about, Mr. Harry.  Last trip we took two down to Tonga—­beastly hymn-grinding pair, who wanted the hands to come aft every night to prayers, and played-up generally with the discipline of the ship.  Robertson never interfered, and old Bruce, who is one of the psalm-singing kidney himself, encouraged the beasts to turn the ship into a floating Bethel.”

“Mr. Harry” laughed good-naturedly.  “Otway, my boy, you mustn’t put on so much side—­the firm can’t afford it.  If you hadn’t drunk so much whisky last night you would be in a better temper this morning.”

“Oh, if you’ve got some one else to take my billet on the Tucopia, why don’t you say so, instead of backing and filling about, like a billy-goat in stays? I don’t care a damn if you load the schooner up to her maintop with sky-pilots and their dowdy women-kind.  I’ve had enough of ’em, and I hereby tender you my resignation.  I can get another and a better ship to-morrow, if—­”