“Why does he come into Ukula, then?” Phil asked. “Oh, that’s like ‘Bully’ Scott. He could have taken them anywhere else, but he enjoys doing something unexpected,” O’Neil answered admiringly. “He has probably then already landed his guns,” Phil said, disappointedly. “Of course, that’s the explanation. His guilty cargo is no longer on board to convict him.” O’Neil steered the boat alongside the schooner’s sea ladder, and Phil swung himself over the low rail. Everything was in darkness around him. “Bring that lantern here, you lazy black rascal,” a big, hearty voice called, and from the darkness Phil saw take shape a figure that he could have avowed to be that of a Puritan father or a missionary bishop. A tall man, elderly, dressed in dark clothes, a flowing gray beard sweeping his expansive chest. The lantern, brought quickly by the “black rascal,” showed a handsome and benevolent countenance. “I am delighted to see you, sir,” he said courteously and in a voice so refined as to fairly startle Phil. “Are you the captain?” the lad stammered, as he accepted the proffered hand. “At your service, sir. Captain ‘Bully’ Scott is the name by which I’m known in these waters.” Phil took a firmer grip upon himself. How much easier he would have found his task if Captain Scott had been in appearance the pirate he had pictured him. “My captain, Commander Tazewell, of the cruiser ‘Sitka,’ sends his compliments and wishes a little information. The usual boarding information, you know.” “Walk aft, sir,” Captain Scott requested politely. “You are welcome to the information,” he continued as he placed the lantern on the deck table between them, “but I take it, Commander Tazewell supposed my ship was sailing under American colors.” Phil hesitated how to reply. The benevolent eyes were upon him. “I can’t say as to that,” the lad replied slowly, “but the general impression I got was that you were an American citizen.” The lantern shed a dim light over the narrow deck space. The native sailors were busily furling the massive sails. Phil heard the rhythmical sound of oars in their rowlocks; other boats were approaching the “Talofa.” He heard the scraping of a boat alongside and the heavy breathing of a man climbing up the ship’s side. Captain Scott had left the midshipman to investigate the new arrivals. He had made as yet no reply to the young officer’s insinuating remark. “Why on earth did you enter the harbor?” he heard the newcomer exclaim as he swung his leg over the rail. Phil recognized the decidedly foreign accents of Klinger’s voice. “Aha!” Phil thought. “Not so innocent after all.” Scott answered the question in a strange tongue, and Phil saw Klinger glance quickly in his direction. Phil’s eye as he attentively listened had been fixed upon the compass binnacle near him. He noted a bar of iron jammed closely against it and apparently tied in that position. “Queer manner of correcting a compass,” he thought.