There were reefs on every hand, and treacherous currents that would have imperilled the ribs of any craft depending on the winds alone for its salvation; but the “Waring,” its pulse of steam throbbing with a slow measured beat, picked its way in the glimmering night with a confidence that made light of dangers past, present, and to come.

It had struck eight-bells forward; midnight; the air was warm, moist, caressing; it stole forth from invisible but not far distant vales ladened with the unmistakable odor of the land—­a fragrance that was at times faint enough, but at other times was almost overwhelming; from the heart of the tropics only, is such perfume distilled; few who inhale it for the first time can resist its subtle charm; its influence once yielded to, the soul is soon enslaved and the dreams that follow are never to be forgotten.

Eight-bells, and silence broken only by the swish of the propeller as it ploughed slowly, deliberately, through the sea; the slap of the ripples under the prow, and an occasional harp-like sigh of the zephyr in the softly-vibrating shrouds; Paul Clitheroe had stolen out of the cabin and was sitting by the companion-way on the port side.  A small ladder still hung there, for there had been boating and bathing just before dinner, and there was sure to be more or less fishing whenever the weather was favorable.  Moreover, it must be acknowledged that the yacht was liberty-hall afloat, yes, adrift, on a go-as-you-please cruise, and things were not always in ship-shape.

An old half-breed Trader, who knew these seas as the star-gazer knows the skies, was in the wheelhouse; every wakeful eye among officers and crew, was at the prow peering into the depth in search of danger-signals; every ear was listening intently for an order from the lips of the pilot, and for the first whisper of the wave upon the reef.  Meanwhile the vessel crept forward with utmost caution, barely ruffling the water under her keel.

One Bell!  Two Bells! Clitheroe had for a long time been sitting unobserved by the companion-way.  He had dined with a riotous company and withdrew as soon after dinner as possible; this privilege was freely accorded him, for he was at intervals gloomy, or silent, and his companions were quite willing to dispense with his society.  Hilarity had ceased for the night, the fact was patent.  The truth is, there was apt to be something too much of it aboard that ship.  When a young gentleman, on the death of a distant relative, comes suddenly into an almost fabulous fortune, he is apt to set about doing that which pleases him best; in all probability he overdoes it.  If he be fond of any society and is willing to pay for the purchase of it, he will find no difficulty in supplying himself, even to the verge of satiety.

A certain gentleman who shall be nameless in these pages but who came to be known among his followers as The Commodore, finding himself heir to a fortune, chartered a yacht for a summer cruise, and invited his friends to join him.  The yacht had been for some weeks the scene of unceasing festivity; the joyous party on board her had passed from island to island, the feted guests of Kings and Queens and dusky Chiefs; feasting, dancing, and the exchange of gifts—­these were the order of entertainment night and day.