And, outside of imprisonment, nothing happened of interest to Dag Daughtry and Kwaque at the pest-house until one night in the late fall.  A gale was not merely brewing.  It was coming on to blow.  Because, in a basket of fruit, stated to have been sent by the young ladies of Miss Foote’s Seminary, Daughtry had read a note artfully concealed in the heart of an apple, telling him on the forthcoming Friday night to keep a light burning in his window.  Daughtry received a visitor at five in the morning.

It was Charles Stough Greenleaf, the Ancient Mariner himself.  Having wallowed for two hours through the deep sand of the eucalyptus forest, he fell exhausted against the penthouse door.  When Daughtry opened it, the ancient one blew in upon him along with a gusty wet splatter of the freshening gale.  Daughtry caught him first and supported him toward a chair.  But, remembering his own affliction, he released the old man so abruptly as to drop him violently into the chair.

“My word, sir,” said Daughtry.  “You must ‘a’ ben havin’ a time of it.—­Here, you fella Kwaque, this fella wringin’ wet.  You fella take ’m off shoe stop along him.”

But before Kwaque, immediately kneeling, could touch hand to the shoelaces, Daughtry, remembering that Kwaque was likewise unclean, had thrust him away.

“My word, I don’t know what to do,” Daughtry murmured, staring about helplessly as he realised that it was a leper-house, that the very chair in which the old man sat was a leper-chair, that the very floor on which his exhausted feet rested was a leper-floor.

“I’m glad to see you, most exceeding glad,” the Ancient Mariner panted, extending his hand in greeting.

Dag Daughtry avoided it.

“How goes the treasure-hunting?” he queried lightly.  “Any prospects in sight?”

The Ancient Mariner nodded, and with returning breath, at first whispering, gasped out: 

“We’re all cleared to sail on the first of the ebb at seven this morning.  She’s out in the stream now, a tidy bit of a schooner, the Bethlehem, with good lines and hull and large cabin accommodations.  She used to be in the Tahiti trade, before the steamers ran her out.  Provisions are good.  Everything is most excellent.  I saw to that.  I cannot say I like the captain.  I’ve seen his type before.  A splendid seaman, I am certain, but a Bully Hayes grown old.  A natural born pirate, a very wicked old man indeed.  Nor is the backer any better.  He is middle-aged, has a bad record, and is not in any sense of the word a gentleman, but he has plenty of money—­made it first in California oil, then grub-staked a prospector in British Columbia, cheated him out of his share of the big lode he discovered and doubled his own wealth half a dozen times over.  A very undesirable, unlikeable sort of a man.  But he believes in luck, and is confident that he’ll make at least fifty millions out of our adventure and cheat me out of my share.  He’s as much a pirate as is the captain he’s engaged.”