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“If a Spanish ship,” I heard one man say, “she will put in here.”

“And if French, she will go to Hitiaa!”

“British ships always go to Matavai,” said Tuahu, glancing at me for confirmation.

“Do you think she is British?” asked Tetuanui, my wife’s old aunt.

I shrugged my shoulders, and an Indian said: “She is not Spanish, anyway. They are standing off too far.”

The vessel was approaching the land on the starboard tack, and it was clear that she was not steering for the Spanish anchorage at Pueu. She might have been a French frigate making for Bougainville’s harbour, or a British vessel bound for Matavai. We seated ourselves on the grass, and presently, as she drew slightly nearer and the light increased, I was all but convinced, from the shape of her topsails, that she was British. I sprang to my feet.

“Tuahu,” I said, “I believe she’s British! Let us take your small sailing canoe and run down to Matavai.”

My brother-in-law sprang up eagerly. “We shall beat them there by hours,” he exclaimed; “this wind always blows strongest close to land. They will be becalmed offshore.”