White Man, step to starboard. Now which of you two is the cook? You?

Then Mr Hay takes your friend in the blue dungaree. Step to port,

Dungaree. There, we know who we all are: Dungaree, Uncle Ned, Sally Day,

White Man, and Cook. All F.F.V.'s I guess. And now, Mr Hay, we'll up

anchor, if you please.'

'For Heaven's sake, tell me some of the words,' whispered Herrick.

An hour later, the Farallone was under all plain sail, the rudder hard

a-port, and the cheerfully clanking windlass had brought the anchor

home.

'All clear, sir,' cried Herrick from the bow.

The captain met her with the wheel, as she bounded like a stag from

her repose, trembling and bending to the puffs. The guard boat gave a

parting hail, the wake whitened and ran out; the Farallone was under

weigh.

Her berth had been close to the pass. Even as she forged ahead Davis

slewed her for the channel between the pier ends of the reef, the

breakers sounding and whitening to either hand. Straight through the

narrow band of blue, she shot to seaward: and the captain's heart

exulted as he felt her tremble underfoot, and (looking back over the

taffrail) beheld the roofs of Papeete changing position on the shore and

the island mountains rearing higher in the wake.

The Ebb-Tide