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“Ten thousand dollars’ worth of trade and ship,” said Harman, “that’s what we’ve given them for a stinkin’ ketch and a couple o’ hundred weight of sand. Sand an’ pebbles that’s what’s in them boxes. You and your girls! No, you can’t put back, they’d jug us for stealin’ this bum boat. Take your gruel and swaller it! Why, bless your livin’ innocence, the whole of that garlic factory was in it, it’s my belief, from the Port Doctor up, and they’ll be havin’ fireworks to-night to celebrate.”

Billy paused, spat into the sea.

“No,” said he, turning his remarks to the universe in general. “It don’t pay. Runnin’ crooked don’t pay—nohow.”

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What would you do were you to find yourself on a stolen sixty-ton ketch off the middle coast of Chile with a crew of Kanakas, less than ten days’ provisions on board, no money to speak of, and a healthy and lively dread of touching at a Chile port?

That was the exact position of Mr. William Harman and his friend, Bud Davis, one bright morning on board the ketch Douro and thirty miles nor’-west of Buenodiaz—about.