“It ain’t for the likes of me to blame you, son,” he said, an imperceptible trace of moisture in his eye that made him wink. “I don’t say you didn’t do wrong, for you did, and you knew it, but when a man is sorry and honestly says so, and besides has a lonely mother to take care of, then I’m for saying no more about it.” Randall derived no small comfort from the sailor’s words. “By the way,” the boatswain’s mate suddenly asked, “where’s that Filipino who nearly caused a free fight in the theatre?” Randall grinned. “Turned up missing the night we sailed,” he replied. “I think he swam ashore. There was some talk of going to Manila, and I believe he’s wanted there by the government for some crime, an outlaw probably; he looks the part.” “Who instigated the theatre row?” O’Neil asked. “Our chief, Impey. That man can do anything he tries to do,” Randall began, when O’Neil interrupted. “Anything deceitful and underhanded, you mean,” the sailor exclaimed, with fire in his eyes. “I’d give a month’s pay to be allowed to throttle him.” “There, that’s finished,” Randall exclaimed as he rose from the tuning device. He put on the head-gear and listened earnestly, moving the pointer back and forward in an endeavor to detect something which would tell him that the receiving circuit was complete. He pushed the buzzer with his finger and remained silent for several minutes afterward. “Just a faint tinkle,” he said finally. “Some one’s talking in Hongkong, probably, but it’s too faint to read.” O’Neil went to report that all was in shape, while Randall locked up the room and put the key in his pocket. The “Sylvia” was now near the latitude of Manila, and the lads and O’Neil could hardly resist the temptation to call up the admiral’s ship. Impey hung about them all evening, frequently asking them when they intended giving the admiral a report on the condition of affairs, for at midnight Manila would be only two hundred and fifty miles to the eastward, well within the sending range of the “Sylvia’s” wireless. But the lads would not enlighten him, and at last he became desperate. “I might as well inform you now as any time,” Phil exclaimed after many appeals, “that I am not going to tell the admiral until the Chinese squadron is anchored where neither nation can find it.” Impey could not believe his ears. Had the lad gone mad? What was his meaning? “The Chinese squadron,” Phil added, “is going to sink metaphorically into the earth until all misunderstandings are over, and then like the Phœnix it will rise from its ashes and go to China, where it belongs.” “But China doesn’t want it. She fears it on account of the internal disorders, and is anxious to be rid of the ships and their cost,” Impey exclaimed.