For this man was the son of old “Tiger” Elliston, founder of the fleet.  The man who, shoulder to shoulder with Brooke, the elder, put the fear of God in the hearts of the pirates, and swept wide trade-lanes among the islands of terror-infested Malaysia.  And through Chloe Elliston’s veins coursed the blood of her world-roving ancestor.  Her most treasured possession was a blackened and scarred oil portrait of the old sea-trader and adventurer, which always lay swathed in many wrappings in the bottom of her favourite trunk.

In her heart she loved and admired this grandfather, with a love and admiration that bordered upon idolatry.  She loved the lean, hard features, and the cold, rapier-blade eyes.  She loved the name men called him; Tiger Elliston, an earned name—­that.  The name of a man who, by his might and the strength and mastery of him, had won his place in the world of the men who dare.

Since babyhood she had listened with awe to tales of him; and the red-letter days of her childhood’s calendar were the days upon which her father would take her down to the docks, past great windowless warehouses of concrete and sheet-iron, where big glossy horses stood harnessed to high-piled trucks—­past great tiers of bales and boxes between which trotted hurrying, sweating men—­past the clang and clash of iron truck wheels, the rattle of chains, the shriek of pulleys, and the loud-bawled orders in strange tongues.  Until, at last, they would come to the great dingy hulk of the ship and walk up the gangway and onto the deck, where funny yellow and brown men, with their hair braided into curious pigtails, worked with ropes and tackles and called to other funny men with bright-coloured ribbons braided into their beards.

Almost as she learned to walk she learned to pick out the yellow stacks of “papa’s boats,” learned their names, and the names of their captains, the bronzed, bearded men who would take her in their laps, holding her very awkwardly and very, very carefully, as if she were something that would break, and tell her stories in deep, rumbly voices.  And nearly always they were stories of the Tiger—­“yer gran’pap, leetle missey,” they would say.  And then, by palms, and pearls, and the fires of blazing mountains, they would swear “He wor a man!”

To the helpless horror of her mother, the genuine wonder of her many friends, and the ill-veiled amusement and approval of her father, a month after the doors of her alma mater closed behind her, she took passage on the Cora Blair, the oldest and most disreputable-looking yellow stack of them all, and hied her for a year’s sojourn among the spicy lotus-ports of the dreamy Southern Ocean—­there to hear at first hand from the men who knew him, further deeds of Tiger Elliston.