We awoke to a dawn that was a rose planted in the sky by the mysterious hand that seems to love to give the fairest thing the loneliest setting.

But there was no wind, so that day we ran on gasolene.  We had some fifty miles to go to where the narrative pointed, a smaller cay, the cay which it will be remembered was, according to John Saunders’s old map, known in old days as “Dead Men’s Shoes”—­but since known by another name which, for various reasons, I do not deem it politic to divulge—­near the end of the long cay down which we were running.

Tom and I talked it over, and thought that it might be all the better to take it easy that day and arrive there next morning, when, after a good night’s sleep, we should be more likely to feel rested, and ready to grapple with whatever we had to face.

So about twilight we dropped anchor in another quiet bay, so much like that of the night before, as all the bays and cays are along that coast, that you need to have sailed them from boyhood to know one from another.

The cove we were looking for, known by the cheery name of Dead Men’s Shoes, proved farther off than we expected, so that we didn’t come to it till toward the middle of the next afternoon, an afternoon of the most innocent gold that has ever thrown its soft radiance over an earth inhabited for the most part by ruffians and scoundrels.

The soft lapping beauty of its little cove, in such odd contrast to its sinister name—­sunshine on coral sand, and farther inland, the mangrove trees, like walking laurel stepping out into the golden ripples—­Ah!  I should like to try my hand on the beauty of that afternoon; but we were not allowed to admire it long, for we were far from being alone.

“She’s changed her paint,” said Tom, at my elbow.  And, looking round, I saw that our rakish schooner with the black hull was now white as a dove; and, in that soft golden water, hardly a foot and a half deep, five shadowy young sharks floated, with outstretched fins like huge bats.  Our engineer, who was already wading fearlessly in the water, beautifully naked, “shooed” them off like chickens.  But it was soon to be evident that more dangerous foes waited for us on the shore.

Yet there was seemingly nothing there but a pile of sponges, and a few black men.  The Susan B. had changed her colour, it was true, but she was a well-known sponger, and I noticed no one among the group ashore that I recognised.

There was one foolish fellow that reminded me of my shackly deck-hand, whom I had always thought out of his mind, standing there on his head on the rocks, and waving his legs to attract attention.

“Why!  There’s Silly Theodore,” called out the captain.

“Look out!” murmured Tom at my elbow.

“I’m going ashore all the same, Tom,” I said.

“I’m going with you too,” said the Captain.  “You needn’t be afraid of me.  You’re the sort I like.  But look after your guns.  There’s going to be something doing—­quiet as it looks.”