Captain Travis and his secretary crossed the continent without adventure, and took passage from San Francisco on the first steamer that touched at Octavia.  They reached that island in three days, and learned with some concern that there was no regular communication with Opeki, and that it would be necessary to charter a sailboat for the trip.  Two fishermen agreed to take them and their trunks, and to get them to their destination within sixteen hours if the wind held good.  It was a most unpleasant sail.  The rain fell with calm, relentless persistence from what was apparently a clear sky; the wind tossed the waves as high as the mast and made Captain Travis ill; and as there was no deck to the big boat, they were forced to huddle up under pieces of canvas, and talked but little.  Captain Travis complained of frequent twinges of rheumatism, and gazed forlornly over the gunwale at the empty waste of water.

“If I’ve got to serve a term of imprisonment on a rock in the middle of the ocean for four years,” he said, “I might just as well have done something first to deserve it.  This is a pretty way to treat a man who bled for his country.  This is gratitude, this is.”  Albert pulled heavily on his pipe, and wiped the rain and spray from his face and smiled.

“Oh, it won’t be so bad when we get there,” he said; “they say these Southern people are always hospitable, and the whites will be glad to see any one from the States.”

“There will be a round of diplomatic dinners,” said the consul, with an attempt at cheerfulness.  “I have brought two uniforms to wear at them.”

It was seven o’clock in the evening when the rain ceased, and one of the black, half-naked fishermen nodded and pointed at a little low line on the horizon.

“Opeki,” he said.  The line grew in length until it proved to be an island with great mountains rising to the clouds, and, as they drew nearer and nearer, showed a level coast running back to the foot of the mountains and covered with a forest of palms.  They next made out a village of thatched huts around a grassy square, and at some distance from the village a wooden structure with a tin roof.

“I wonder where the town is?” asked the consul, with a nervous glance at the fishermen.  One of them told him that what he saw was the town.

“That?” gasped the consul.  “Is that where all the people on the island live?”

The fisherman nodded; but the other added that there were other natives further back in the mountains, but that they were bad men who fought and ate each other.  The consul and his attache of legation gazed at the mountains with unspoken misgivings.  They were quite near now, and could see an immense crowd of men and women, all of them black, and clad but in the simplest garments, waiting to receive them.  They seemed greatly excited and ran in and out of the huts, and up and down the beach, as wildly as so many black ants.  But in the front of the group they distinguished three men who they could see were white, though they were clothed, like the others, simply in a shirt and a short pair of trousers.  Two of these three suddenly sprang away on a run and disappeared among the palm-trees; but the third one, when he recognized the American flag in the halyards, threw his straw hat in the water and began turning handsprings over the sand.