“What’s the meaning of this, Mr. Stump?” Captain Scott’s tone, though quiet, betrayed great concern. “Shorten sail, sir!” he shouted. “We must be nearly on the reef.” Then of a sudden the situation dawned upon Captain Scott. Stump was energetically kicking the sleeping sailors to wakefulness, bawling out his orders to “let go the gear” and “man the down-hauls.” “Great guns!” the captain cried aghast. “It’s Ukula.” Mata grunted an affirmative. “Bear a hand there.” Captain Scott’s voice could be heard above the thunder of flapping canvas. “Douse everything. Get this speed off her.” He glanced anxiously into the compass; the schooner was on her course. “Compass gone plumb crazy,” he exclaimed. “You’ve got a jack-knife on!” He turned savagely upon the helmsman, feeling for the knife usually carried on a lanyard about the waist, but Mata was not guilty of this great nautical misdemeanor. In but a few minutes the nimble crew had gotten all sail off the schooner, yet the fresh breeze still carried her toward the harbor. “Mr. Stump, out on the bowsprit with you,” the captain ordered. He himself had gone to the forecastle, directing in his clear, far-reaching voice the helmsman at the wheel aft. A white, specter-like line suddenly appeared close aboard, ahead and to starboard. Captain Scott was now full master of the situation. To the left of the line of breakers was deep water. “Starboard your helm,” he cried. Then, “Steady so.” The “Talofa’s” bow was heading between two long lines of surf, while ahead were the lights of a large vessel, and between her and the schooner, Captain Scott could see, was deep water. As they drew nearer the vessel took shape out of the darkness. “Ship ahoy,” a hoarse voice hailed the “Talofa.” Captain Scott purposely waited a repetition of the challenge. He was thinking deeply. The silhouette of the war-ship bore nearly abeam. If he gave the schooner’s right name he would stand a better chance of weathering the visit from the war-ship which would be made when he anchored. Subterfuge would only lessen his chances. It had been too late when he had come on deck to put the vessel about and seek safety. The reef was too close aboard. Now, once inside the harbor, to turn and head out to sea would put his vessel under suspicion, and a search-light in combination with a few shells would bring him back. “The ‘Talofa’ schooner from Fiji, Captain Scott in command,” he answered, loud and distinctly. “What ship is that?” “The United States Cruiser ‘Sitka,’” came the answering hail. The shrill notes of a boatswain’s pipe on board the war-ship, followed by a deep throated call and a hurry of shod feet, came distinctly across the water. The “Talofa” forged slowly ahead. Her bow was swung to port as she nosed her way into the inner harbor.