“You must not put yourself about though, on our account, Willis.”

“About; no, it would not put me about.”

“Very good; then it only remains to be seen whether there is a pipe in the colony.”

“Ah,” said Willis, feeling his pockets, “yes, exactly—­here is one.”

“Curious how things do turn up, isn’t it, Willis?” said Becker; “but the mosquitoes would not be frightened away by the smoke, if applied at long intervals, so you will have to repeat the dose at least two or three times every day, always supposing it does not affect your constitution.”

“Sailors, you see,” replied Willis, “are like chimneys, they always smoke when you want them, and sometimes a great deal more than you want them,” And on turning round, he beheld Sophia holding a light, and a good-sized case of Maryland, which had been preserved from the wreck.

Ever after that time the mosquitoes had a most persevering enemy in Willis; and, notwithstanding his health, his daily walks entirely ceased.

For some time the Pilot and the four young men passed the night in a tent erected about midway between Rockhouse and the Jackal River.  The apparent reason for this modification of their plans was the greater facility it afforded for their all meeting at daybreak, breakfasting together, and setting out for Falcon’s Nest before the temperature reached ninety degrees in the shade, which junction could not be so easily effected with one party encamped at Rockhouse and the other bivouacked on Shark’s Island, with an arm of the sea between them.

The real motive, however, was that all might be within hail of each other, and prepared for every emergency, in the event of the stranger appearing in a more palpable shape, and assuming a hostile attitude.  We say the stranger, because, judging from the indications, there was only one—­still that did not prove that there might not be several.

One night, as Fritz was lying with one eye open, he observed Mary’s little black terrier suddenly prick up the fragments of its ears, and begin sniffing at the edge of the tent.  This shaggy little cur was called Toby; it had accompanied the Wolstons on their voyage, and was Mary’s exclusive property; but Fritz had found the way to the animal’s heart as usual through its stomach, and Mary was in no way jealous of his attentions to her favorite, but rather the reverse.

Fritz, feeling convinced by the actions of the dog, which was of the true Scotch breed, that something extraordinary was passing outside the tent, seized his rifle, hastened out, and was just in time to distinguish a human figure on the opposite bank of the Jackal River, which, on seeing him, took to its heels and disappeared in the forest.

He was soon joined by the Pilot and his brothers; the dogs leaped about them, and the alarm became general throughout the encampment.  Fritz re-established order, enjoined silence, and said,