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there had been little welcome in their faces. He stood for a moment by the table and noticed that the sky in the mirror had turned from a clear olive to a deep gray and that the lines of the door and the gallery rail had lost their sharp decisiveness and had blurred into the dark background. Then he darted out of the cabin through the steerage and called sharply, “Jacob! Jacob!”

The men watching at the guns stirred in suppressed excitement and turned from whispering uneasily.

“There are strange sounds yonder, boatswain,” called one.

“And shall we knock out the ports and loose the tacklings?” another asked.

“Be still! Jacob, Jacob!” Phil cried, running up on the quarter-deck.

There was no one on the quarter-deck; there was no one on the poop. The wind was blowing up into a fair breeze and small waves were licking against the dark sides of the Rose of Devon. But the after decks were deserted.

“Jacob!” Phil cried once more, and sent his voice out far across the water. But there was still no answer. Jacob had gone.

For a moment the lad stood by the rail and intently listened. The calling on shore had ceased, but a boat was rowing out from the town and the beat of oars was quick and irregular. Further, to swell his anxiety, there was a great bustle on board the unknown ship, which had been lying hitherto with no sign of human life.

Then Philip Marsham took the fate of the Rose of Devon in his hands and leaned out over the quarter-deck gun. "Holla, there!” he called, but not loudly,